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Help Keep Kiefair.com Alive!

Do you use Kiefair.com? Do you support me giving out info on cannabis oil creation for free? Well, if KiefAir.com is to stay afloat with its mini library of cannabis related reference information then I need to make $200 in PROFITS from my art sales by March 1 on my etsy store and book sales.

 

Have a look at some samples from my portfolio, all of these images may be purchased to support keeping kiefair.com open.

2014-05-29 0420 cooking oil (1)

Portrait of Toni Fox image created by: Breezy Kiefiar

Portrait of Toni Fox
image created by: Breezy Kiefiar

RIP MAYA Screenshot 2014-03-09 20.13.36 edit

aurora borealis through cannabis eyes

aurora borealis through cannabis eyes

Image title: Maiden, Mother, Crone title by: Wren Déjà Vu SmilingDeer Image by: The Art of Breezy Kiefair source image: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=555469131139767&set=a.151763424843675.27293.100000300558421&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn1%2F603947_555469131139767_1142977912_n.jpg&size=251%2C750 source image description:  Title: Banshee Breezy, Be afraid Title By: Breezy Kiefair Image by: Breezy Kiefair of The Art of Breezy Kiefair

Image title: Maiden, Mother, Crone
title by: Wren Déjà Vu SmilingDeer
Image by: The Art of Breezy Kiefair
source image: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=555469131139767&set=a.151763424843675.27293.100000300558421&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn1%2F603947_555469131139767_1142977912_n.jpg&size=251%2C750
source image description:
Title: Banshee Breezy, Be afraid
Title By: Breezy Kiefair
Image by: Breezy Kiefair of The Art of Breezy Kiefair

576483_572377506106301_1369787859_n book cover edit 8x 11 w text small 2013-01-12 0651 dark-angel edit 7 august edit

remember that cannabis flowers are like roses... roses come in many colors and the right color given to the right person can open many doors... cannabis flowers come with many different effects and the right flower given to the right person with the right illness that flower is good at treating can ease much suffering. —                                                                     https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=530336420319705&set=o.154533251224064&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn1%2F525999_530336420319705_1779578205_n.jpg&size=480%2C384

remember that cannabis flowers are like roses… roses come in many colors and the right color given to the right person can open many doors… cannabis flowers come with many different effects and the right flower given to the right person with the right illness that flower is good at treating can ease much suffering. — https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=530336420319705&set=o.154533251224064&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn1%2F525999_530336420319705_1779578205_n.jpg&size=480%2C384

2013-04-02 tokin hills for rev b 2013-04-02 Fire on the mountain in a Canna Colorado moonrise 2013-04-02 caturday in the woods think i saw a lynx with my eye 2013-04-02  Blue moon for a green moment

Love the art on Kiefair.com? please visit: https://www.facebook.com/Breezy.Kiefair.likey

Love the art on Kiefair.com?
please visit:
https://www.facebook.com/Breezy.Kiefair.likey

2012-12-19-1629-to-alter-edit-2-2.jpg 20581_533764563310224_1514513811_n

Please remember I only make pennies per art print I sell, so I need to sell a lot of pieces. A patron has already gifted me $100 to bring the hosting fee bar a little lower, but he was a special case, my first patron ever who seems to still want to pay more for some ceramic figures I did when I was about 14. He always sends me some cash during the winter holidays and on my birthday. In truth this anonymous donor has been more of a father to me than my own. One of the few positive male role models i have had in mu life. The rule is to spend it onsomething for myself. I’m going to misbehave this year and give the gift to you. This year I’m putting it towards continuing to give the gift of information via kiefair.com

You the reader/viewer will decide if kiefair.com stays alive. If I get sales, all profit (save my usual tithe if 10% of all profits) will go to saving KiefAir.com.The holiday season left me with not one sale. I hope we can do better on those sales and keep the site alive. Remember the power is yours to make it live or let the library die. Any image from my please bogart my art page is for sale except the maya portrait.

Buy here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/ArtofBreezyKiefair

This shop accepts Etsy Gift Cards.

Aurora Borealis through Cannabis Eyes

$11.00 USD

Other Products:

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Of Pain, Poetry and Pot [Kindle Edition]

Breedheen O’Rilley , Breezy Kiefair


Print List Price: $11.11
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Book Description

December 6, 2013
A poetry book centered on pot written by cannabis activist and artist under the influence, Breezy Kiefair. “Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own.


Product Details

  • File Size: 1518 KB
  • Print Length: 31 pages
  • Publisher: Breedheen ORilley, aka Breezy Kiefair; 1 edition (December 6, 2013)
  • Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
  • Language: English
  • ASIN: B00FGF8WUY
  • Text-to-Speech: Enabled
  • X-Ray:
  • Word Wise: Not Enabled
  • Lending: Enabled
Customer Reviews

 

6 Reviews
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4 star:  (0)
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4 of 4 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Rare and Lovely, October 2, 2013
Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Kindle Edition)
Would You Like To Pick Breezy’s Brain? This wonderful book is a chance to witness the creative process at work; author Breezy Kiefair (aka Breedheen O’Rilley) is the real deal, a gifted poet/journalist/activist on the forefront of the battle for medical marijuana patients’ rights and for truth in media. And speaking of truth, emotional truth is exactly what you’ll get here. Breezy isn’t afraid to take an open-eyed, unsparing look at society, at herself, at her illnesses, at the lies we tell ourselves and each other — and at the scintillating, breathtaking beauty which is more real and more powerful than all else. Highly recommended.
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Beautiful., January 14, 2014
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Kindle Edition)
Written by someone very intimate with pain on many different levels. Beautiful and honest. I can’t wait to find out more about this amazing young woman. I originally borrowed this book. I have now read it twice and I have to own it. It must become a part of my permanent collection, along with anything else I can find which flows from this beautiful author.
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Passion and creativity fills these pages, December 27, 2013
Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Kindle Edition)
The poems and rhythm that comes from the author’s feelings show you that she uses her medical cannabis passion and even frustrations to put her concerns into words we can understand. You can feel her pain – you can feel her pride. The transposed songs were a great touch.
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Talented, insightful artist and writer,November 25, 2013
Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This multi-talented artist and writer amazed me with her insightful and sometimes heartbreaking poetry. Her artwork is not only beautiful, but different from any I have seen. I have actually ordered several individual prints off her website to give as gifts this Christmas. I highly recommend this book.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Fabulous, February 8, 2014
Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Kindle Edition)
As an activist,a woman and a HUMAN BEING,, I could feel the pain in Ms. O’Rilley’s poetry. Yet I could also feel the triumph. A must for all “pot’ lovers, I got it for 2.99 for my Kindle and it was MORE than worth it. I’ve read these poems over and over, you will too.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Of Pain, Poetry and Pot, March 13, 2014
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Kindle Edition)
This is an excellent book written by a very gifted, unique woman Breezy Keifair. I loved the whole book and have read it a couple of times so far. She is an artist that does her work under the influence of pot for the pain she is in and you can feel that pain with her words. I could really relate to that and a lot of other things in the book. I highly recommend this book. She is also a very gifted artist besides being a good poet and writer.
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Of Poetry Pain and Pot new verses

1501709_724764604210218_641304898_n

Here is some new poetry from the author of the book,

“Of Poetry, Pain and Pot”

Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). The next day to download it for free is December 21

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Poetry-Pot-Breedheen-ORilley-ebook/dp/B00FGF8WUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385582510&sr=1-1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The river is broad, deep and still.
The cattle lowe upon the bank
Stately she glides upon a ship of gopher wood 
drifting upon the rivers ebb and tide.
It is a houseboat, a royal palace,
A temple wherein she and her healing reside
Her sails hempen homespun
Her mast the finest teak
Gossamer crystalline curtains beckon you within
A temple throneroom green and golden
You feel a peace and safety such as never has been.
And then you see her, such a rare and powerful beauty
Seated upon her high cannabis throne.
That is when you know, you have come home.

Poem fragment 12-2-2013 12:36am
Breezy Kiefair author Of Poetry, Pain and Potartist under the influence of cannabis at The Art of Breezy Kiefair, editor, Kiefair.comReefer Gurl and Gardening Tips for the Medically Damned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have the strangest fantasy of how things would be if I could disembody me literally

To disassemble the sum of my parts to allow each bit to focus on arts, healing written, and viewed and then I’d like to lay about the room.

Near the ceiling in the North East Corner of the room floats my stomach and digestive tract that has been lifted up in prayer so often it just floats like a gruesome garland rising from the earth to the air.

On the bed reclines a disembodied spine each vertebrae pulled apart so it can finally breathe

I separate my eyes always watching detached from all and yet they see what is, what was, what yet may come to be.

The eye that sees well closely i park like an orb web cam along with half abrain and my left hand. Grateful they blaze to work free of the body and shining in internet land.

The right hand, the other half of the bran and the longer sighted eye work leisurely on art’s beautiful sigh.

Above my stomach floats my mouth with a funnel filling system with nutritious fuel even if i get tired of digesting gruel.

My nose I leave in a bed of potpouri flowers.

My lungs float ever filled with smoke from an equally disembodied bottomless bowl.

My heart is broken and hides locked in a crate ever trying to put the pieces back together shattered by fate. Its physical hole and emotional hole preventing all hope for a fulfilled heart that’s whole.

My veins make a maze hoooked to the digestive tract with estuaries leading to confined heart and runs likewise to pancreas, liver, kidneys and it does to the heart.

My female organs are in pickle jars before the tv always in the line of view reminding me of what I lost being unable to see.

In a heap under the bed lies pathetic immune system hiding and waiting for a sterile enviornment

Muscles drape about the room like laundry drying finally feeling relief of tension.

The remaining bones save the skull are in a pile on the south wall waiting for the pain to burn them out of existance.

my blood is an aquarium in the west ever being purified and recycled.

one leg kicks asses online with brain hand and eye, and one leg disembodied hikes 14,000 ft mountains in memory of past strength within I

What is left of my sex lies secreted in a box beneath my pillow, beneath skull and spine in safekeeping mourning the loss of love.

What a gruesome sight this disembodiment would be. And somehow it is comforting fantasy to me.

Still alive, yet detached in so many ways from the pain and the anguissh that limits my accomplishments each and every day. 

I have the strangest fantasy of how things would be if I could disembody me literally

To disassemble the sum of my parts to allow each bit to focus on arts, healing written, and viewed and then I’d like to lay about the room.

11/07/2013 1:07 am

Breezy Kiefair

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November 22, 2013 at 4:34pm
At the daily appointed time, she hides in darkness stretching the leafy dime. She inhales and ponders the days events and does her best to fear circumvent. She is filled with sorrow for so many who do without this simple comfort she has made her life about. In the winter twilight she shivers and smokes and prays for those who wish with her to shiver and toke. For the suffering smokeless masses are so very many and yet when I point them out I’m treated like a crazy ninny. I shiver and smoke and cry and toke and still have a heart for those who are broke. The feds raid and I wonder about the needs of the end user how will they suffer because of a possible regulation abuser? All this pain could be gone if we all just accepted growing and using a plant is not wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have yourself a merry canna christmas
Toke until you’re light
How many years must we sow our grow out of sight

Have yourself a merry canna christmas
And if you cannot pay
next year charity might just give meds away

When will it be as in olden days
Happy toking days of yore
Hempy fields that are dear to us
Were grown near to us before.

Through the years we keep fighting this battle
Till the fates allow
A prohibition repeal but till then we’ll muddle through some how.
So have yourself a merry canna christmas now.
Breezy Kiefair, Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, The Art of Breezy Kiefair, Kiefair.com Gardening Tips for the Medically Damned

parody of the christmas carol Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 7 at 4:09pm

For whatever reason, my creator gave me talents and gifts wrapped in genetics and circumstances promising me a difficult and unique life. I seek to find a way to share that gift with the world in a way that does not daily enrage me or break my fragile heart that already lays on the floor of my chest like glass waiting for a blower to put them to the torch and forge something new. If sacrificing most portions of my activism on the altar of artistic integrity is the price to find a path to peace, then it is a toll I cheerfully pay to gain entry to a path of potential higher art. Sacrifice is a part of most any artists path in one form or another. I pick my sacrifices carefully and am likewise selective as to what altars I bow down and sacrifice at. My muses rarely steer me wrong or into peril if I but trust them. Their whispers come from the same creator who formed me as I am and set the stage of circumstances. What have I to fear?

https://www.facebook.com/breezy.kiefair/posts/733001996719812

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

576483_572377506106301_1369787859_n book cover edit 8x 11 w text small

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 10 at 5:51pm

I would rather be left alone with ghosts of poets, artists, historians, historical figures and other beings whose energies echo yet to this day with integrity than to sell my artistic and immortal soul to a community so corrupt as to profit off the weak, sick and dying. One company feels like pure ethereal silk upon the skin of the soul sweet and pure as you dance upon the clouds of nirvana, the other is a harsh dirty sack cloth on the soul in eternity that scratches the soul’s skin and makes the heat of an eternal flame more evident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh sore and throbbing knot that doth reoccur behind mine left ear. Why must thou swell and ache? Why when I find hope that you have moved to lungs and nearly expelled you from my realm do you redouble your efforts and climb back into my ear? Since 2006 you have dwelled in the swell behind mine ear of feminine creativity, body mine won’t you expell this bacterial or viral lodger and perhaps restore some function and quality of life to me? Nae, nae, instead it begins with sweats in the night and by the next night doth progress to unquiet discomfort yet again. Heat and herbal oils friends through the night. I shall call the physician tomorrow to update her on my plight.

 January 12 at 5:08pm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maiden, mother, crone… the triangle of stength and life each female soul must roam. We all begin as maidens latent powers to attract, mythical beings such as unicorns but in our world people see the power and detract. They impose their power, their ideas, their rules of what a maiden is and what life she must choose. Mother is a shadowy thing that some have choosen, some stumble into, and some supplicate and seek in neverending prayer like a treasure they are seeking to serve a larger thing to which they are beholden. If we have enough years, we all become a crone latent power here of a matriarch on her throne. Aged quiet power and knowledge residing in her bones. Remember dear ladies we all dance this triangle of power solitarily yet we all dance and never are alone.

January 14, 2014 11:16 am

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One thing I can do without lifting my head. I can express my love and gratitude for those who are interested and kind. I can send prayers and virtual tokes to those worse off than I to whom the world seems blind. I can dance upon ethereal planes and perhaps a spiritual healing I’ll find…. all these are more peaceful choices than listening to the pain seeping from my ear into my mind.
January 15, 2013 

Solstice Gift! free ecopy “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot” One Day Only!

DECEMBER 21, 2013 ONLY!

Hurry over to Amazon.com and download your free ecopy Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, by Breezy Kiefair featuring works from The Art of Breezy Kiefair and Kiefair.com. Don’t own a kindle? no worries…. download Kindle for PC or Amazon Kindle for Android to access the book without purchasing the Amazon Kindle hardware. The Book is free today in honor of the Winter solstice celebration

Of Pain, Poetry and Pot is a poetry book centered on pot written by cannabis activist and artist under the influence of cannabis , Breezy Kiefair. “Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Ginsberg – Howl and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own.

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Poetry-Pot-Breedheen-ORilley/dp/1492830399/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1387652549&sr=8-1&keywords=of+poetry+pain+and+pot

I just published a poetry book with amazon.com…..this is the book cover. It is called “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot”

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

the electronic edition is still free for one more day folks! Please distribute the following link for people to get their free copy
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FGF8WUY

“Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). Yes, I am aware of the odd format in the table of contents. I assure you that is semi-intentional. and please! Share these links around so the pot poetry can be read easily.
another link for the paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1492830399/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

What the reviews are saying: (dec 20, 2013)

Customer Reviews
2 Reviews
5 star:  (2)
4 star:  (0)
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2 star:  (0)
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Average Customer Review
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Most Helpful First | Newest First

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Talented, insightful artist and writer, November 25, 2013
Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Paperback)

This multi-talented artist and writer amazed me with her insightful and sometimes heartbreaking poetry. Her artwork is not only beautiful, but different from any I have seen. I have actually ordered several individual prints off her website to give as gifts this Christmas. I highly recommend this book.

Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Rare and Lovely, October 2, 2013
Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)

Would You Like To Pick Breezy’s Brain? This wonderful book is a chance to witness the creative process at work; author Breezy Kiefair (aka Breedheen O’Rilley) is the real deal, a gifted poet/journalist/activist on the forefront of the battle for medical marijuana patients’ rights and for truth in media. And speaking of truth, emotional truth is exactly what you’ll get here. Breezy isn’t afraid to take an open-eyed, unsparing look at society, at herself, at her illnesses, at the lies we tell ourselves and each other — and at the scintillating, breathtaking beauty which is more real and more powerful than all else. Highly recommended.

Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No

excerpt:

A bit of Cancer poetry for thought…

To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the diagnosis I have been this way
So burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my veins with Chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Every time I shut my eyes, all I see is pain.
Made a little ribbon to remember all the names
So empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. I hear they are thinking surgery, hope it’s not my brains.
They’re only gutting fishes for their own personal gain.
So numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank  account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Where were you at the time of the crime?
Ripping up the Hippocratic oath, just to make a dime?
So chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer

You put your doctors in, they take their conscience out,
They take the human being and they twist it all about
So take my world away
chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer– 

Adrian Mitchell’s structure.

Words by The Art of Breezy Kiefair

There is a cure for cancer…

how many beautiful women and men need to be butchered

because doctors want to run from the cure

for the sake of monetary gain?

Of Pain, Poetry and Pot

I just published a poetry book with amazon.com…..this is the book cover. It is called “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot”

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

the electronic edition is still free for one more day folks! Please distribute the following link for people to get their free copy
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FGF8WUY

the paperback edition is out as well.
http://www.amazon.com/…/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

“Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). Yes, I am aware of the odd format in the table of contents. I assure you that is semi-intentional. and please! Share these links around so the pot poetry can be read easily.
another link for the paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1492830399/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

excerpt:

A bit of Cancer poetry for thought…

To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the diagnosis I have been this way
So burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my veins with Chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Every time I shut my eyes, all I see is pain.
Made a little ribbon to remember all the names
So empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. I hear they are thinking surgery, hope it’s not my brains.
They’re only gutting fishes for their own personal gain.
So numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank  account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Where were you at the time of the crime?
Ripping up the Hippocratic oath, just to make a dime?
So chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer

You put your doctors in, they take their conscience out,
They take the human being and they twist it all about
So take my world away
chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer– 

Adrian Mitchell’s structure.

Words by The Art of Breezy Kiefair

There is a cure for cancer…

how many beautiful women and men need to be butchered

because doctors want to run from the cure

for the sake of monetary gain?

Questions?

send a pm through facebook to this profile

email: breezyorilley@gmail.com
snail mail:

Bréedhéen O’Rilley Keefer

P.O. Box 849

Franktown, Colorado 80116

Breezy Kiefair a poem by Maggie Slighte

Breezy Kiefair

by: Maggie Slighte

A Sick Rose,
yet
an angel-
beautiful
and rare.
None
can compare
to the artist,
the being,
who is
Breezy Kiefair:Wings
tattered
and torn-
like the
leaves
that adorn-
her art
pure and wise.
Her dreams
and hope
she shares
with us,
through
green-tinted eyes.Sharing
a fragment-
a potential-
yet barely
tapped;
of
a little girl
lost,
but no longer
trapped.Flitting
and flying,
hither
and fro-
Seeking
fertile
soul soil
where love
might just
grow.Seeking
and searching
for those
more
worn
and war-torn
than she:
Ones
anxious-
pleading-
desperate
in need.Praying
the Creator
sends
them hope
with a smile;
on the wings
of change
sending
her energy
over the
miles.A fragile
yet wise,
Ginsberg sort
of a Girl;
On the
border
of being –
out of
this world.Searching
Seeking
Hoping to find-
All she
can help
in her very short time.Her maggic
is sacred –
Her intent
is so pure;
gods and godesses
of old
seek to them
to bring
her near.Demons abound
a fount
believing they
to have found;
Yet to one-
her Creator
only,
she so is bound

A heart
pure
in desire,
for absence
of animosity.
In her
dreams
she
once beheld
recipreciosity

Her heart bruised
yet open
to one
and to all-
True to
the Creator
for that,
none shall fall.

A lighte
of the ages-
A friend
true and rare-
Such is the woman
known as
Breezy Kiefair!!

at 12:26 AMfrom

Poetry and Random Reflections of Maggie Slighte. “Everything I do; I do, Slightely”

Open your closed eyelid
Which is gently brushed by a virginal dream!
I am the ghost of the rose
That you wore last night at the ball.
You took me when I was still sprinkled with pearls
Of silvery tears from the watering-can,
And, among the sparkling festivities,
You carried me the entire night.

O you, who caused my death:
Without the power to chase it away,
You will be visited every night by my ghost,
Which will dance at your bedside.
But fear nothing; I demand
Neither Mass nor De Profundis;
This mild perfume is my soul,
And I’ve come from Paradise.

My destiny is worthy of envy;
And to have a fate so fine,
More than one would give his life
For on your breast I have my tomb,
And on the alabaster where I rest,
A poet with a kiss
Wrote: “Here lies a rose,
Of which all kings may be jealous.”
http://youtu.be/B_7MiojC3ys

Shall We Call it Wail Oil or Phoenix Tears?

Its the bitter watches of the night and I wake. I ask myself what it is that has rousted me this day from my slumber. Its not near my body clock’s time of 4am…. There is a wailing in my mind and I must ask myself “whose pain is this?” for I know it is not mine. My body is aching with the storm on the peak, but I’d just found my center and there was no wail with in me like this to speak.

So trying not to wake the other in my bed, I sit quietly and listen to see what it is this wailing voice has come to seek. Its victims so many victims… victims of war, hungry ghosts of a corrupt system, victims of the human butchers and legal poison vendors, victims of industry and victims of hard work, being eaten alive by cancer and bodily disorder of so many shapes and forms it makes me shudder in vibration with this wail. And within me I hold an answer for so many a gift from above that I try to spread without regard to a patient station in life….. It is a wail of responsibility. It is a wail of the profiteer’s victims. It is the wail of prohibitions ugly head……

I light a candle to guard my heart from a wailing so deep in the thick of the night and I still listen to the voice in my mind reminding me of their plight. I sit a while with the lamb in my breath asking that higher than I to step in and take this wail up with my smoke to the sky. I ask for the means to bless those wailing with even a few grams of healing and hope cause I believe in doing what my creator said. And I know that this life and this path I have chosen for myself has never been easy but its not about self.

I give honor to the earth. I burn sacred sage of the earth and cleanse the darkness from my mind until light only remains. I light incense and honor the air. More candles glow and I honor the firey spirit of the soul and I soak in salted and perfumed waters and try to scrub away the victimization of these beautiful souls. Lambs breath fills my pipe and lungs and mind and I try to send a shining beacon of the creators light to these wailing in my mind and in the dark and in their own lives and pain… Dressed for the day I inhale organic tobacco and ponder quietly.

Then another presence comes upon my mind…. and I am taken back though the years and back in time. To a place and time where my body was not constantly sore…. Its boulder its Ginsberg its 1994. Its a little bookish Jewish dude who howled for his time and who brought me to his feet to sit for a time… You see he was my own personal poet willy wonka who saw a bit of my poetry and brought me on up to the Naropa factory to sit at his feet for the anniversary of his beloved school. It was Allen Ginsberg day in Boulder and I was with the master and yet a child myself….. I remember how he opened my eyes and smoked a blended herbal cigarette with me in an intermission…..

What dreams I have of you tonight Allen Ginsberg as you dreamed of Walt Whitman…. with sick people wailing in the night and my soul howling at the moon of my own inner madness.

I wonder where you are tonight while I feel so small and so responsible. I imagine you my zen master in your own nirvana or perhaps your here again in another body and another life… But from wherever you are I seem to hear your voice reminding me of the power of my pen and of the ideals to which you and I both try to keep. You wanted freedom of the plant and so do I. I’m trying to be a willy wonka for others where you were willy wonks for I… and so my musings and prayers and light intercessions complete I turn to what I can do for those wailing from where I am and put actions to the light that I keep.

And so I begin to wail for these folks online saying with my writers voice and my mighty pen:

I begin with this blessing: Virtual early Sunday morning tokes to all of the Rastafarian sacramental strain lambs breath. For me this strain quiets fears and calms my mind. It clears my mind and puts me in a space where i can enter my creators holy throne room with gratitude and peace instead of chaos and turmoil. It makes me still enough to hear the still small voice of my soul. It points me to currents and springs of strength and reminds me of the good i do. All of this i have for me i extend to you virtually and in energy and prayer.

Note***** There are two sacramental strains to the Rastafarian religion. One is called Lamb’s bread (I have never had the pleasure of smoking this strain) and it is said to have cola’s so large that the buds are sliced up like slices of bread. This is said to be more for dancing and rejoicing before the Lamb. Lamb’s breath is characterized by smaller dense highly resinous buds that are mellow, mind clearing and good for quiet contemplation.

I am still looking for new raw material sources to meet demand. I will pay $100 a pound for quality trim. I know a lot of you usually process your own trim but who cant use an extra few dollars around the holidays that the transaction goes to save lives? Call 719 480 0238. you must be in Colorado. I need bulk i need it quick.

I will travel anywhere in the state and negotiate on price for the right weight of the right stuff. I need trim that bad. I am trying to get people served as quickly as possible while longer term sources Relationships are in the works. Call 719 480 0238. A portion of any and all trim purchased goes to provide free phoenix tears to those in need that is why i need good prices. To put goodies into financially challenged cancer and severe illness folks hands. Lets get those free folks their Christmas presents and the paid folks what they deserve. It will make you feel good to give some people tears of joy.

The rest of you who cannot help with actions you may offer you energy to the task. Never underestimate the power of prayer in intercession for someone else. If we focus good vibes on those free peeps and paid peeps their lives can improve exponentially by far more than me just getting Their oil delivered to them. I invite you to join me in that intention…. No, i challenge you to.

Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying
it forward to others?

I just gotta get these people taken care of. For some it means hope to try for another year. There is a couple who lives on the street. One partner has bone cancer and has all but given up. When my oil is there they live as good as they can and enjoy what life they have. Without the oil bone cancer boy gives up. They cant pay and i don’t care. I wanna give them both some hope and quality of life.

There is a writer whom many respect respect within our community whose belly aches him to no end and he cant sleep among other serious issues that are more private. He works hard for our cause but cant afford oil. He is the very picture of a starving writer and artist with a good soul and I wanna get him some rest and comfort so he can continue to serve us all so well.

There is an awesome bud-tend who works for far less than he is worth. The shop he works for sells oil yet it is out of his price range. A grain of rice a day would stop him from needing a diabetic needle yet his pancreas is far overworked. I wanna be sure he can keep giving patients the strains they need with the brain in his head. I have never left his shop with anything other than a strain to treat exactly the conditions I am concerned about that day mostly due to his knowledge that keeps a wide variety of strains for a wide variety of ailments on the shelves and getting into the right hands.

There are Numerous ladies and gents with tumors praying to avoid chemo and folks hoping not to need their noses scraped off their faces Who cant pay and need mercy. How can anyone deny the value of what i”m trying to accomplish? will no one sell me the raw materials i need to enrich these lives. I have shared but the tip of the iceberg.

Someone calls these folks I’m trying to help jewels in my crown. I bristle at the suggestion. I don’t care about jewels in my crown. If the creator blesses me as such that is incidental. I give because i know need better than most and to repay the kindnesses done for me by good people when i had nothing.

I do it because someone needs to and far too many are far too concerned with profit. I do it because these are victims of a corrupt system each and everyone in one way or another.

And i do it because it is in my nature to do it. And to make my murdered son proud of me from where he sits waiting on me in the afterlife and to make his wait have meaning. Help me make these sick people’s wait have meaning too.

So if you have some trim and a heart call me at 719 480 0238 And lets bless some people together. If you have a heart and no trim please just keep these good folks in your thoughts and prayers or however you communicate with the universe offer some strength in the direction of one or more of these people. Don’t direct it at me please. The sick need your love and light far more than i do.

I ask again! Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying it forward to others?

And so I move from being woke in the night, to prayer, to action trying to get some help to those who need it most. Won’t you please help me? I want to buy raw materials to make them medicine. That’s all.

Some Raw Materials images purchased after this post:

This is some sugar out of one of our big bags of trim

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virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl.....some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl…..
some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

You Can't see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

You Can’t see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

2011-11-05 “Howl” By Allen Ginsberg remixed by Breezy Kiefair with video reading

2011-11-05 “Howl” By Allen Ginsberg remixed by Breezy Kiefair Part 1

Text:

I saw the best minds of my generation valiantly struggling to destroy the madness, starving hysterical educated,

dragging themselves through the occupied streets at dawn looking for a fix to their righteous anger,

angelheaded hempsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating class warfare,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El train and saw First Nation spirit guides pale and staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with perscribed narcotic hazed eyes.. desperatley trying to conquer physical pain inside the dream of Ginsberg’s school whilst Debting Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war and peace,

whose doctors with the stroke of a pen excluded them from the academies for weak immune response & too many hospital visits and too much time off required…… and so retired to being a ghost in the machine publishing controversial essays on the benefits of cannabis therapy for the sick.

who cowered in rotten canvas tents in long dirty clothes, burning their resin, paying their land bills and heating canned goods on a candle in the absence of an indoor stove whilst listening to the Terror echoing still today and through the years,

who got busted for their sacramental pipes returning through Maine with a story of hope for Cleveland, Michigan and Colorado.

who grew fire out back of low end hotels in their RV or drank resin tincture on Paradise Mesa, dug in until death, conditions and the cold of hell in their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, cannabis and lack and endless wails,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Mexico and the whole prohibition world, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote spirits haunting the land of no halls, backyard green tree cemetery falls, canna-bliss blowing over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teapotparty joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusk’s of the valley, ashcan rantings and kind cannabis on compassion makes you light of mind,

who chained themselves to their occupation. for the endless ride from park to holy jail on love and hope until the noise of mace and sticks brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the fear light of the memory of the dead man from the Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of the capitol building and when riot police came floated out and sat through the stale beer/coffee house dawn in desolate 16th Street, reading the crack of doom scroll across their social media news feeds.

who posted information continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Twin Towers onto of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, gifts for the Sacred place just cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen horizon mirage above reality’s plane. leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of the beauty of the world.

Who found it better suffering sweats and bone-grindings and migraines of junk-withdrawal in an MMJ state’s bleak furnished room, with the comfort of a pipe in hand and the knowledge they could use as much of this as their pain required and not worry about an unintended death.

who wandered around and around at midnight in the occupied parks wondering where to go, and remained, leaving no broken hearts except for their own, and even it, scrawled across a bit of cardboard and peacefully expressed for all of the anger and stress madness within their breasts.

who lit hash filled cigarettes at truck-stops truck-stops truck-stops racketing through snow toward lonesome freedom Maine in grandfather night,

who studied St. Jude, astral projection, and bop kabbalah, Rastafarian, the Egyptian book of the dead, the epic of Gilgamesh, and more because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Nebraska.

who longed through the streets of Ohio seeking visionary First Nation guides who were visions themselves

who thought they were only mad when they have every right to be mad and their righteous indignation gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in pig cars on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight small-town blizzard Maine,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through ‘Mosa seeking meds or heat or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to the safety of the horse-lands,

who disappeared into the underground leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the rocks we gathered for the house and ash of my heart scattered on the land, self sustainable American dream in ashes because I cant fund it beyond the empty land, and even that is for sale for survival’s sake.

who reappeared on the East Coast investigating the medicinal cannabis programs in other states in purple pure gift scarf and with big pacifist eyes sexy in their pale skin passing out information and stories in exchange for housing like a true bard of old.

who cold turkey-ed cigarettes repeatedly protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism (and picked them back up again in PTSD coping mechanism to throw them back down again and again),

who screamed in favor of the Cannabis haze of capitalism…. who distributed Congressional Supercommittee petitions in Universal Online square weeping and exposing the secrets of their hearts while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the severe weather sirens also wailed,

who broke down crying in protest parks as if they had been left naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who used their whit to strike at detectives and shrieked with delight in police-cars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and duty to protest.

who howled on their knees in the igloo and were dragged off the sidewalks waving signs and screaming valid points,

who let themselves be maced in the face, and screamed with joy for truth exposed,

who believed in equality for all, caresses and hints of unconditional love

who occupied in the morning and in the evenings and sent messages to delegation rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their opinions freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a public forum when a small & vulnerable woman came to hear their wailing song.

who lost their loves to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, (DEATH!)

Video 2 text”

who shared themselves ecstatic and insatiable and fell off the net, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate hope and prosperity eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, and a lighting a fire of self sustainability desire

who sweetened the minds of a million hearts trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the image of the sunrise, flashing truths under sad eyes and naked in the soul,

who went out traveling through Colorado in myriad stolen rides, A.G. secret hero of these poems, poet and activist of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable fingers given to censoring conformists and cigarettes shared with corrupted youth in Naropa writing work shop breaktime day. I sing to you on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside debates & especially quiet help in dreams.

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden nightmare, and picked themselves up out of heart sore despair… not drunk yet hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Wall Street’s iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their souls full of dread on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the 1% to open to a room full of steamheat and and lack of worry,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appeasement of bankers of the Stock market under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build revolutions in their parks, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the acid rain skies surrounded by orange crates of theology wishing for wide open spaces,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, rambling and unpublishable without a proofreader’s eye

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for a banana,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next century,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were tortured alive in their innocent flannel suits on social security disability amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, your government docs say your too sick to work, your government says your life is worth $17.42 a day. Make that work you sick lady in the wild all on your own.

who were trapped on the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of the protests, not even one tagline

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the dream’s window, jumped in the filthy Greyhound, leaped on haters, cried all over the street, danced on broken glass pipes barefoot..

who polar bear-ed it across frozen mesa to prove a point to psychopathic husband…. smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz screamed it was 1929 again, finished the joint and still stumbled down the hall just in time for their disease to make them throw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal auditory sensitivity.

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch a widespread panic incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loaned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to the social media class,

who retired to MMJ state to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or France to teach medicine or Southern border to live cheaply or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the feds of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw Knowledge at political pundits and gave lectures on history to representatives and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous reversion to the constitution,

and who were given instead the concrete void of mainstream media, refused electricity, cold-water hydrotherapy long before the dawn, applications for protest trademark names, occupational therapy in the for of police brutality & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic table, resting briefly in catatonia as the peaceful prepare their souls for pain.

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the corruptions and small-town censorship of infanticide in the East,

Pueblo State’s mountain views and Excelsior’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with bio-family finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— yet in the mind hope still remains

ah, working class, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

whose written dreams made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel citizen in Time, unknown, yet posting here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

video 3 text

II

What Harpy of regulations bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Inequality! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Inequality! Moloch! Nightmare of Money! 1% the loveless! Mental Moloch! State controlled Media the heavy judge of men!

Class Warfare the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Super-Congress of sorrows! Wall Street whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Money for the stunned governments!

My country whose mind has become pure machinery! My Country whose blood is running money! My Country whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! My Country whose ear is an unknown and smoking tomb! My country who adopted me and is therefore my parent.

My parents whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! My parents whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! My parents whose factories dream and choke in the fog while paying down their carbon footprint as if the damage was undone! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities making my body ache!!

Moloch is My father whose love is endless oil and stone! My father whose soul is electricity and banks! My home whose poverty is the specter of genius! My home whose fate is an uncertain roller coaster based on regulations that keep shrinking my resources! Freedom’s only home now whose name is the Mind!

Moloch is My home in whom I sit lonely! My home in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Crazy Bitch in Moloch! Lacklove and friendless in My home!

Moloch who entered and attempted to own my soul early! My home, in your information superhighway I become am a consciousness not bound so much by a disabled body! My father who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! My parents I abandon! Wake up in my country! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! Corporate Persons! invincible house or representatives! granite senates! Corrupt lobbyists! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting their country to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American Dream river turned to flushing toilet!

Dreams! adoration! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of bill of rights constitutional BULLSHIT!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and revolutions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the the edge! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! Were the 99%! This is what martial law looks like! As they are beaten back but do not submit.

III

Breezy Kiefair

Occupy Together! I’m with you on Wall Street

where you’re louder than I am

I’m with you in Oakland

where you must feel strange

I’m with you in Saint Louis

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I’m with you in Michigan

where you’re brother murdered a baby so you covered up the archives and put him to work as an administrative assistant.

I’m with my regulars

who pick apart and you laugh at this invisible humor

I’m with you in Denver

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I’m with you in Colorado Springs

where your traveling protester’s condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I’m with you in my heart

where the faculties of the skull admit the worms of the senses but only in shades of pain

I’m with you in Nederland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Indica

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you sell nugs with the bodies of your nurses

I’m with you in Facebookland

where I scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of actual chess of the abyss

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you bang on the catatonic newsfeed

What’s on my mind? “the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse”

I’m with you in Facebookland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we accuse our doctors of cruelty, insanity and plot the revolution against the bankers influence and unequal distribution of wealth..

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you will split the heavens and find the beauty where you are, resurrecting your living human freedoms from the superhuman tomb

I’m with you in Facebookland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the songs of their youth all saying there is hope and we rebel.

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and whose problems won’t let us sleep

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ chemtrails roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop censorship bombs the digital hospital illuminates itself   imaginary walls collapse   O skinny legions run outside   O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here   O victory forget your underwear we’re free

I’m with you in Facebookland

in my dreams you drive from the story of your-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night to build a life here with me away from such woe.

 read source poem in its entirety and more edits here 

https://breedheenorilleykeefer.wordpress.com/2011/10/30/america-and-howl-by-allen-ginsberg-updated-for-the-occupation/

And now the master reading his own work…

“America” by Allen Ginsberg updated for the Occupation (with Ballad of the skeletons)

America” and “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg updated for the Occupation and “Ballad of the Skeletons” as he wrote it”

October 28, 2011

America

Breezy Kiefair

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America seventeen dollars and forty two cents October 28, 2011.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?

go fuck yourself with your atom bomb, homeland security and martial law.
Go fuck yourself with your patriot act oppressing true patriots.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till my muse gives me the words.
America when will you return and be angelic? This world I live in is like a twilight zone episode of America’s greatness of yore
When will you take the wool off of your eyes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?

When will you open your eyes to the sick and dying? When will you see that we have value too? When will you correct the stress that kills disabled and working class alike?
When will you be worthy of your 99%
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you transform your spending from defense of oil to your peoples survival?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the dispensaries and get the effective medication I chose over narcotic poison with the same money Uncle Sam is happy to spend on things that make me more ill & could kill me?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.

Your human histories made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
My husband has gone underground I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the wild horses let me in their circle, seems horses understand me better than people.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, I can’t afford the subscriptions and everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. It just reminds me of my murdered kid and justice miscarried..
America I feel sentimental about wildlife and national parks.
America I used to be an nerd when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. While reading the free library that is the internet and sharing it with the world.
When I go to town I get supplies and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me eating libraries.
My psychoanalyst thought my logic is perfectly sound and advised me to trust it.
I WILL say whatever prayer I feel like wherever I feel like saying it. Cannabis IS a religious sacrament and a valid use of my first amendment freedom of speech and religion America the constitution is beautiful with a built in process of beautiful change.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. I am not ashamed.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Grandpa John after he came home from ‘Nam

I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by the mainstream media?
I’m obsessed by the mainstream media.
I read it every day.
Its pages stare at me every time I open my computer to get some human connection.
I read it in the homeless shelters, in the basement of the Tattered Cover Bookstore,

in the basement of the NYC Greyhound station,

in social clubs for the insane in Maine,

In the greyhound station of Cleveland,

in Michigan Libraries

and on back to Denver,

to Union Station.

And I read it still out here in the wild.

Surrounded by nature at the roof of the world where I feel a bit more safe..
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Bankers are serious. Businessmen are serious. Lobbyists are serious. Movie producers are serious. Comedians are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

My country is rising against me.
I haven’t got a unemployed person’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of minds
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
99%’ers occupying my the ground.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the medicines that don’t work for me, and the GMO foods are next to go..
My ambition is to contribute to society despite the doctors saying I’m too sick for anything..

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my thoughts are as individual as his
automobiles more so if we planted hemp and made hemp oil returning to his original engine design we could stop worrying about oil.
America I will sell you all that I have just to survive.
America free Marc Emery
America save the Medical Marijuana Community & legalize
America we execute innocent too often they must not die.
America I am the 99%.
America you don’t really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad terrorists
Them terrorists them terrorists and them North Koreans. And them Terrorists.
The al Queda wants to eat us alive. The Al Queda‘s power mad. They wants to take
our cars from out our garages.

Oh my precious oil, must protect the precious oil…

when we can grow an oil far better on the land that is ours & should be so free.

They wants to squash Denver. They needs a edu-ma-cation. Ther wants our
auto plants to go to Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh.. Uncle Sam need big strong workmen at a wage guaranteed to make you weak..
Hah. Them make us all work massive overtime with no overtime pay as I watched my friend get laid off today. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking at the net and social media posts of your people.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts in factories,

I tried factory work already, I’m nearsighted,chronically ill and psychologically unstable anyway.
America I’m putting my bisexual artists research obsessed shoulder to the wheel.

America

Allen Ginsberg

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.


Ballad Of The Skeletons Lyrics by: Allen Ginsberg

Said the Presidential Skeleton 

I won’t sign the bill 

Said the Speaker skeleton 

Yes you will 

Said the Representative Skeleton 

I object 

Said the Supreme Court skeleton 

Whaddya expect 

Said the Miltary skeleton 

Buy Star Bombs 

Said the Upperclass Skeleton 

Starve unmarried moms 

Said the Yahoo Skeleton 

Stop dirty art 

Said the Right Wing skeleton 

Forget about yr heart 

Said the Gnostic Skeleton 

The Human Form’s divine 

Said the Moral Majority skeleton 

No it’s not it’s mine 

Said the Buddha Skeleton 

Compassion is wealth 

Said the Corporate skeleton 

It’s bad for your health 

Said the Old Christ skeleton 

Care for the Poor 

Said the Son of God skeleton 

AIDS needs cure 

Said the Homophobe skeleton 

Gay folk suck 

Said the Heritage Policy skeleton 

Blacks’re outa luck 

Said the Macho skeleton 

Women in their place 

Said the Fundamentalist skeleton 

Increase human race 

Said the Right-to-Life skeleton 

Foetus has a soul 

Said Pro Choice skeleton 

Shove it up your hole 

Said the Downsized skeleton 

Robots got my job 

Said the Tough-on-Crime skeleton 

Tear gas the mob 

Said the Governor skeleton 

Cut school lunch 

Said the Mayor skeleton 

Eat the budget crunch 

Said the Neo Conservative skeleton 

Homeless off the street! 

Said the Free Market skeleton 

Use ’em up for meat 

Said the Think Tank skeleton 

Free Market’s the way 

Said the Saving & Loan skeleton 

Make the State pay 

Said the Chrysler skeleton 

Pay for you & me 

Said the Nuke Power skeleton 

& me & me & me 

Said the Ecologic skeleton 

Keep Skies blue 

Said the Multinational skeleton 

What’s it worth to you? 

Said the NAFTA skeleton 

Get rich, Free Trade, 

Said the Maquiladora skeleton 

Sweat shops, low paid 

Said the rich GATT skeleton 

One world, high tech 

Said the Underclass skeleton 

Get it in the neck 

Said the World Bank skeleton 

Cut down your trees 

Said the I.M.F. skeleton 

Buy American cheese 

Said the Underdeveloped skeleton 

We want rice 

Said Developed Nations’ skeleton 

Sell your bones for dice 

Said the Ayatollah skeleton 

Die writer die 

Said Joe Stalin’s skeleton 

That’s no lie 

Said the Middle Kingdom skeleton 

We swallowed Tibet 

Said the Dalai Lama skeleton 

Indigestion’s whatcha get 

Said the World Chorus skeleton 

That’s their fate 

Said the U.S.A. skeleton 

Gotta save Kuwait 

Said the Petrochemical skeleton 

Roar Bombers roar! 

Said the Psychedelic skeleton 

Smoke a dinosaur 

Said Nancy’s skeleton 

Just say No 

Said the Rasta skeleton 

Blow Nancy Blow 

Said Demagogue skeleton 

Don’t smoke Pot 

Said Alcoholic skeleton 

Let your liver rot 

Said the Junkie skeleton 

Can’t we get a fix? 

Said the Big Brother skeleton 

Jail the dirty pricks 

Said the Mirror skeleton 

Hey good looking 

Said the Electric Chair skeleton 

Hey what’s cooking? 

Said the Talkshow skeleton 

Fuck you in the face 

Said the Family Values skeleton 

My family values mace 

Said the NY Times skeleton 

That’s not fit to print 

Said the CIA skeleton 

Cantcha take a hint? 

Said the Network skeleton 

Believe my lies 

Said the Advertising skeleton 

Don’t get wise! 

Said the Media skeleton 

Believe you me 

Said the Couch-potato skeleton 

What me worry? 

Said the TV skeleton 

Eat sound bites 

Said the Newscast skeleton 

That’s all Goodnight

 

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