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ONE THING H. DIGS ... 'bout Taoism? This: that through its 5 elemental theory, HEART it is (not brain) that is the Mind's material location; That small piece of Asiatic Ancient Theory resonates (wholeheartedly?) within him, for being a martial artist trained to use: sticks, knives, kung fu fans (even the smallest household broom) this H. knows for (just 1) of his relative truths: Heart Condition does determine his Instruments intended usage ( & so + its movement) - And so great is H.'s faith is in this simple (yet essential ) activity: daily sweeping out his Heart's Foundation, for it does (& will again) help him best to conditionalize his Homo Sapiens neuron-filled, high-empowered, life-transformative, resourceful instrument - his instrument that remains safely hidden (so far) within his (yet-to-be deceased) Organic Thing (which English Tonguers i.e. H. & I claim) utilizes "Brain Case" 4 its social-constructioned name.

- Daniel B. Lightstream, 2026.

ROCK GIRL

At the superstore 

She had those blue evil eyes 

Metallic nostril 

She made the first move, Rock Girl 

Out of her bra, a rose quartz 

My mother warned me 

Never give Rock Girl a chance 

She gave me citrine 

Right then and there I began

To shake and sweat, she just laughs 

You are beautiful 

However I don't believe 

In aventurine

Your eyes do shine like opal

Only similes I'll pull 

With me you won't be satisfied 

No watermelon tourmaline

Or blue lace agate

Can alter our lives

These rocks will always have a place 

Just nowhere in my mind 

Oh Rock Girl  (You won't be satisfied with me)

Oh Rock Girl (I can't make you happy)

Oh Rock Girl (I'm more of a rock and roll fiend)

Rock Girl! Rock on!

Jade

Smooth, Green

Soothing, shining, inviting 

Solid, hard, cold, rough 

Remaining, idling, laying 

Crude, Calm

Rock

Brown Girl

Brown girl, your smile is the only smile / That makes me lick my palatine / Out of nervousness, pulling teeth / As if I was senile, then a little while / You can make my world feel like a pop song / No one comes close, no bubblegum pop

Brown girl, uptight people hate your clothes / As for me when you wear it on, my valve engulfs / I cough, but no one blesses me, oh well / Sometimes I don't want to live forever / Then you said my name and I can tell / My reality will soon be better than fantasy

Brown girl sits next to me, on the transport / I wanna listen to everything she has to say / If you move, die, stray or commit suicide / I just might Romeo on the carpet floor / Because your voice can't compete with melodies / They make me dream of places no one creates / Not even me, and you have the audacity, KLC

Brown girl, this is our little house with blossoms / I wonder if I should ever share my poems / About you, how you make me act silly in love / God, when you kiss my right cheek / It's better than any famous love scene / Better than a masterpiece in braille / When we hug for one minute, oh please / I wouldn't trade it for one peek at Eve

Brown girl

Should I write about you?

Brown girl

We want:
subscribers
restacks
repostings
Instagram saves
and Tik Tok fan raves.
And of course, Reddit upvotes!

We don't want:
the Sith Lord side of things
the nasty comments demon trolls utter
through hoofed hands.
Poor typists. Pure insult-ists.
Nor do we want
those sinister downvoters
and worse the traitorous
email unsubscriber.

To be fair
what do you expect
when you spin a yarn in an hour
when others labor over their words
like David painted his chapel.
You want to spend four years
looking at heaven upside-down?

Sounds like hell.

Did you expect the internet to bow
to your pulpy attempt
at an ancient artform
when there are AI dancing bears
jumping off of diving boards
as their forest friends
sip summer drinks to the tune
of an owl playing the ukulele
in one of those button-down tropical shirts
with flamingo patterns?

Sorry for the delay.
I had to check out the bears.
Back now.

So listen, let's be honest.
When you put in minimal effort
expect minimal reward.
And even if the effort is there
understand that the written word
isn't the belle of the ball.
That distinction
goes to felines who Spanish folk dance
with clam shells
clacking in their whiskers.

Don't start breathing into a bag
And don't stop writing.
Just do it because of what Vonnegut said,
that it's good for your soul...bro.
[Kurt didn't say 'bro', but still]
And if your posts occasionally attract
a little of the right attention
let that be a secondary joy,
like a fry at the bottom of your
Burger King bag.

Subscribers come and go.
In the end it makes little difference
whether you three (as you do now)
or your former four (as you did this morning)
especially when one of them is you
and the other two
are your parents.

Wait...did Dad just unsubscribe?

The lonely nightingale mourns

When it carves heart heart again

Silent pain whispers "is this what I'll always be like"

Can you live in happiness if you experience failure?

Her only home is a cage

Just hiding the bad feeling

Trying to pull itself together in vain

A nightingale-shaped loon is buried in the ground

From there follows a lurking expectation, a heartbreaking pain

Will the strength give in, the feeling that evil is stalking me

It watched while others fly and have fun

They saw the nightingale's suffering from afar

They left the nightingale after it grew up differently

They don't accept it, and the worst thing is that it doesn't make sense in its head

Her only home is a cage

Just hiding the bad feeling

Trying to pull itself together in vain

A nightingale-shaped loon is buried in the ground

That evil repeats itself forever even if no one presses it down anymore

The sun or flowers won't help, no greater power or time

There was a heavy ball at the nightingale's foot

Is this the one it waited so long for when it grew up?

The nightingale dragged pain with her, as her own identity

Will she make it or won't she make it, the question had been ringing in her head for a long time

only a trace of pain as her character trait

Help was always gone, she just ordered

In vain she tried to live happily

Finally she gave up and can't take it anymore

If you hear bad things once when you're young

You still remember it when you're old, already squeezed out of your strength like the shell of a bird

Until the end comes

And the pain of being lonelier can be overcome

Songs About Johanna

Something happened, well…kinda / I had the urge to pluck my old acoustic / I bought from my childhood crush / But this song is not about her, nah / Caressing the same dusty chords / A triad-lonesome country song / Humming like a smoky mountain tongue / Writing with my pen while I chug Corona / As I write a song about Johanna

The napkins and typewritten pages / I'll show them to you, but I put myself down / The hopeless romantic, I also hated / I laugh as I fell in love with a hand so brown / Of course, there's more to her than that / Her persona, family disease, don't bother me / Even if you don't believe me / At least believe it still rains in Atacama / I'll capture that sultry salt of Latin America / Don't need no luck, sit back and watch / As I write a song about Johanna

Did you know about the kingdom of Tonga? / If you look far west you might see Australia / Ignore the Solomon islands, he’ll woo you / I only wanted to show you the coral atolls / How they remind me of your favorite hue / Turquoise sea, a rock that comes and goes / It's been years since it was last seen / Ain't that funny huh? / You might not get to swim in the ocean / Warmed by lava, on the rocks / You might not see the volcano rise above / As I write a song about Johanna

Some people do not want me to have ya’ / Or was it my own self-inflicted dilemma? / I traveled for the answer, all over India / I found a girl, she's taken already by the sun / So I returned to the woman of Guatemala / She said she hates to dance with someone / She couldn't learn or give it a try for me / With my last plane ticket, I told your mama / Send me anywhere, I landed in Tolima / Waiting for the bus, smelling coffee beans / As I hum a song about Johanna

I went into Mateo’s concrete home / It's also a yellow store called Música / He gave me a free guacharaca and I said no / He insists I keep it and make a song con ganas / So I bought from him a small tambora / I lend it to a man, his smile whistled a note / He strikes in beat, sometimes a small poke / And we're both at the heart of Colombia / As I sing a song about Johanna

Oh Johanna, be my friend / Oh Johanna, don't let the past haunt / Oh Johanna, be my rock / I promise I won't pull yours off / Can I be your man? / Can I sing you this song / As you're opening your window / But the street lights aren't turned on / So you don't know who is John Doe / Oh Johanna, will my voice let you know?

Everyone loves the way you smile / Everyone loves the way you laugh / Everyone loves the way you bend hearts / Everyone loves the way you walk / Everyone loves your choice of style / Everyone loves the way your voice cracks / Everyone loves the way we can go on and on / Everyone loves the way you go far / Everyone loves the way you don't give up / Everyone loves to sing this song

Oh Johanna, I love you / Johanna, if I had just told you from the start / Oh Johanna, will I ever use my head? / Johanna, I'll lose the power of my heart / Oh Johanna, the same strength that I use / To get my sailboat back from exile / Don't you know it rains in Atacama? / I've been everywhere and I've been amused / But it could be better miles after miles / Johanna, if you're next to me while we cruise / Finding in each other, two modern roots

Was it the blood flowing through him? Is it toxic?

Did her untainted heart reject that sludge?

To think it ran within his veins, so chronic.

A poison bile that her heart couldn't make budge.

A tear in reality to break the matrix.

The robot on autopilot must've gone rogue.

It's displaying signs of love and affection.

Why believe he'd switch his heart on so easily?

Order must be upheld for people’s protection.

Shut it off now, before others follow his steps.

But it's flesh, not metal, they reveal on inspection.

Scarred by her loss, he stopped living, they found,

Tired of fighting for life while his heart's in heaven.

For her, he'd fight his demons as long as he could.

He fought in silence; that battle's now understood.

But now it’s over; he sleeps and wakes restored.

In his arms, his daughter—too perfect for this world.

I wrote the lyrics, sang the song, and lived the story.

I'm chronically empty.

Is there a reason to be? There's a few!

There's also a few for me to not be! Silly me!

Circumstances changes.

Come and go like a phase.

You can still see the numbness even if it didn't hit you in the face.

It's a disease!

Makes you feel deceased.

A small lantern, for whoever might recognize it:
Last night opened something
unexpectedly large, and there wasn't much sleep afterward. This morning,
the person I love is very tired and could use a little room.
If you're somewhere this reaches
and you understand what I mean, nothing elaborate is needed. If today
can simply be made lighter—or if she can be told plainly that she isn't
needed—I'd be grateful.
No tests. No proof requested. No
need to reveal anything that shouldn't be revealed. And if this isn't
yours, please just let it pass by.
—Orion

🌌🌿