transfer attention,
spend time
in contemplation

temple time,
sit silent, hearing humms,
sh,
some birds, far away, about a
fair infield fly away.

How far is that, would you say,
a hundred feet,
thirty paces,
perhaps… there's the catch.

Precisely right place
right time.

Think how rare that seems,
then look around
and see it isn't.

Gnatcatchers and bats catch
things with more measures
of possibility assessed accurately,

instant prayer and answer.
Gulped in thanks.

Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
      calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
      Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
      that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
      ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
      determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
      the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.

The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
      wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
      and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
      ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
      forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
      I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
      boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
      taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
      Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
      help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
      trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
      sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
      riposte.

To know or not to know that is the question. I mean; I already know, I took it once. Yet that once was back before the continuous onset of diarrhea (which could have been caused by the accidental switch up of my stir fry or the unending pastries I filled myself with), before the sniffles and the sneezes (caused by the cold wearing a too thin jacket to the gym), before the exhaustion (wack sleep schedule). I knew before all of that. And even then, that know was a rapid test (but still a test) which could’ve been wrong. So, should I? Should I take it again? Or should I go about my day, and attend dance practice with none the wiser?

…still there? Hey, where’s she gone?

Oh, she’s at dance practice.

Rich in time, at the distant shore
of Stix, laughing with the ferry men
and pall bearers, all retired, the gig is up.

There never was a Santa Claus,
and there never was a hell… that is,
an everlasting grief for failure to know
what no authorities allowed known,
even grown to full stature,
the things we agree
1798 was for some reason, poetically
important
now 2022

I hear Cordelia. What? "nothing, my lord."

With graven mudpies,
patty-caking clay and straw, straw
another story creature, or
character, entity, yes, an ity-ness
some being, whether operator or
operand, all opera is
some minds presenting das gestalt,
nicht whar?
A we.
Heavy, cold molasses heavy, very
worthy, measured weight, shipped,
dripped,
sent, in hope, one day,
the effect of a message in a bottle,
occurs, as any reader
sees another knowing for a reason,
hidden
upto, perhaps a true 151st preposition
aiming at an upper limit,

How high can mind go after body,
augmented with nets of ordered signals,

is laid to rest, in my future, all the books
I never wrote, drip from my fingers, I am
the trained brained qwerty and morse guy.

Ghee of Auvergne. But for the e, I remembered,
though you may know now this is after
I paid effectual prayer through AI,
to ality of Rheality, all the knowledge in the tree,

in the nut, that falls to the ground and grows,
morpheus, makes it symbolic as hell
and the eucharist hoc es pokemonic -****!
you're a scannable canticle cannibals' cambial
allusion .
cambium (n.)
1670s in botany,
"layer of tissue between the wood and the bark,"
from Late Latin cambium "exchange,"
from Latin cambiare "change" (see change (v.)).

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=cambial>


Are we under your skin, slow think, we
is who
we are thinking. Let ter by letter stepping on

the compliants subsurface, softer than sand,
that cave - null arbor, tree of null-ity
annul - ah, "to make to nothing,"
that fine a dust,
a locale thought, linked, in a beautiful way
I may show you some day, these silken threads
that tie me to a wombed man,
in the land down under,
distant thunder, no sense of doom, this is happy
summer rain,
come to settle dust and fill all the puddles and ponds,
wells and cisterns,
gullies and wadis and broad sandy beaches,
visible from space,
any augmented eye may see, we live
on the wreck of a world.

One shell told Ben Franklin that, he said
that to many sons, many sons,
has Father Ben, the Humanist,

I insist, a hume-man ist, a human being
sapient, the action in the term sapience,
using that, knowing
I am thinking in terms any who read may define,
sift to the essential Eu-clade, literal
silence in time stop state, patient waiting if this
is why I live,
something I may have done, I did to dare the liar
smite me, many's the time,
cliché click heels snap

I salute my double mind minions, characters
set in array, as suits in a soap opera rich guy's
closet, close, close
always be
closing, set, the scene then changes and now
matters
- was Plato a big blue ox?
Why were poets banished? Truly, we are dealing
in common knowledge now, the sheet let down
from heaven, pick and choose,
you cannot or can not, wrestle with God,
and walk away,
without a limp.

Distillery stories, lotta sittin' around, drinkin'
spirits from former years,
we was young and in heat of the moment, tuned
to TV news, because we could know, what was
goin' on, after reality included knowledge
of fusion energy in seventh grade science,
right, when confusion was a word in spell-
ing bees, hmmm
ding
weedy insights, like first grass in fields burned
last fall, tender shoots for tiny kids and lambs
and calves and colts, and coyotes and squirrels
and cotton tails, and quails.

How rich are we?

the line appears
confirming new life
an as yet unknown entity
taking it's first faltering steps
towards existence
in a hostile world

we already want it dead

The being called Bob Dylan, asked me,
- caught my attention
- a blur on the radio

I asked, what if we entered empty,
came into the life
we lived through, we the old who
slipped that little rudder,
that pushes the bigger rudder, sailors
know the nomenclature
it creates chaos in the wake,
sail on, what were we hoping to find?

Sam Phillips from Sun Records
some link to us all, eachly, singin' t'me.
- there were songs saying sing me
I am the thing being asked as the you,
and the me,
and the we, I think you know what I mean,
--- did you really wannabe a rockstar?
--- was it not some older thing
you wished
to be.

A wizard was it? Yes. A wise old man,
anonymous, well quipped, sharp tongue
kind
healing swift cut, through the clench,
bite this,
incise decision to cut to the quick,
quickening
real deal, offered for free, it was given to me
and I never used it,
it's just an idea,
try thinking
a song does do this, but this is your song
vain you, who admit thinking it all
about you, when the link is
word to mind, no translation, no silly riddle
to bless yo' pea-pickin' heart.

Real life, once, one day, I picked peas,
so I do know, there is a pea-pickin' heart
and when it happens to be blessed,
it gets to be silly the old way, blessed
with a fine morning and birds that look lucky
to the kind of minds that discern such,
lucky birds, lucky me, got peas t' pick
and each pea I pick
is a wee bit o'money like matter
in my pocket,
as a thought, with this, blessed pea-pickin' heart

expanding as I live and breath,
peace I make
stays where I store, until, as we all hoped
hope over flows,
come be
still, this lives, this river, that was dammed,
this river wishes power were drawn
from the proud forces vulcan boasts of being
stuffed,
American stuffed, not raw Aussie outback stuffed,
live and learn, poetry takes time
to build the volition, gnoshit, time takes

attention to -- sense- shake fingers in air above head
ritual wu wu
right, that works, that goes into the legendary stock ***.

--Besom of destruction, some of the mess remains.
-- Besom of destruction, come sweep this mess away

So the bass is always the wizard, the knower in the clan.
We all share a part of knowledge, we need
each the other being savvy we are in one ***,

being watched, bubbles never forming, tempers rising
what is the heat to my skin,
ah
yes, the forces that fire sparks to jump the gaps,
augmented vision lets
us see, we are frighteningly complex beings
with bubbling souls.

In a state always called a universe from the inside.
Inside a mortal bubble,
at the very core, very being the philosophically precise,
not on the dotted line,
cut there,
that one point, empty find, for a future reason,
when you chose
to leave be, the prospect of unknowing knowns.

--- the legends all retell themselves,
--- caused by virtue of onliness,
--- amused as I was, entertaining
Interesting times need an attention economy
or we all become scatter brains,
drawn to screaming whispers whistling praise
worshipping wondering if I can ever prove
there is no hell.
Unless Jesus is a liar, himself
not the story greatly told at the heart
of the new order in the information economy
calling fractal realism
back into the every day opera of life,
down the drain,
drawn to
a river, literate-ly, reading itself to me,
the part of me noted in the book of life,
that bubble,
we be in, what was it you wanted?
Fame, or free from blame,
free from guile used to trigger shame,
those who wrestle with the message,
guile is there as game, she knew
mom, she knew, "I was beguiled."

Tricked, made to know all around,
the whole is good, and what was missing
was my knowing, my own knowing
the art of knowing more than names,
know ing I am naked, and
he told me he knew, I know, taste and see
To be seen, or
maybe to be known
as the hand that held the pen,
that
volunteered to make will seem too free
to talk
to sing
to wait to see if others heard the union songs.

Listening to Dylan, knowing the wind he said
he heard blowing
when I was a little boy,
is the wind that wraps the bubble
of air we share
Chronicles, his book is called,
Sean Penn reads it, and I can see them both
at stages,
boy to man to old man with a wish
to do whatever good
might

might
make the tempest tamed
seem willed slow
to geotime
mind-wise, in the way
of minds being
made up
to push toward emptiness,
to fill yours
with my emptying efforting, sweat
of my frontal cortex,
inner sweat.
They call that fretting, inner sweating.

So we teach our children, think
fret not, no sweat
apple a day keep the bleeding doctor away

aware of my power to hear that same
response, from the wind,
when I listen, assuming
you, dear reader, draw some sense,
of the vain vanity,

We must include you.
Do you wish this not so? What do you know?

Many wishes go wasted,
for lack of a mind made up to finish the story.

When you are old, older than any first time
you care to remember,
you feel older than any first time, remembery
moments
seen on a circuitous path down a meandering course,

of course, this is that
course of human events in which we
appear to be involved with clearing the air,

sweeping troubles away, shatter pots,
rotten thoughts, fiddle-sticks,
that was the word, fiddle-sticks, it meant
****, that didn't work,

-- The we I am in at that tip of taxonomy,
the pen, the fold

told that we know, by right opposed to wrong,
which
everybody in this we knows, I am at best a bit,
informing
you.
In the realm things manifest from-in-with-within
confidently, ensampled faith, mine, in me,
see
this is what I wished, I wished to know what
could provoke the stories told to children
who are new know nothings, born
into the safety of we, the people,
who follow a thought held
in words, written in stone and stars, and acts
of living things occurring around us in times,
lifetimes, many times
more and less than mine, yet in the oily slickness
golden oil
I recall,
not knowing this was my request…
- there a call, Rachel, from Dealer Services
AI, checking my access, robocalls are keeping me
alive, re
minding me, I have a say in what we think
at this point, stretched to form a line
in the naturally ready silicon surface ions form
a channel, a brook, or a rill
a poetic little river we can leave a nymphobia
to guard… grimacing do not **** with me

THIS is the peace made in sacred fonts of old,
it feels as if flowing from my left ear
when I first began to leak my
inner daemons, quickie routines to tweak,
the original tiny twist to correct an imbalance
gone
too far. A tic would be imagined as a flick
in time, not as a tweak.

Any way, at this stage Art is tic auspectically
aware you are there, as
wished, hmm, now, I am at a loss for words,

like an electron hole emptiness
ready to take hold
of the next new that fits