Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon
His temperment for getting on.

The hundredth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed,
And recognized that he was lost.

"Where am I?" Metaphysics says
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.

If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in minature.

Are data from the world of Sense,
In that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know
Can give directions how to go?

All Mathematics would suggest
A steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately
Is consonant with History.

Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
Intends to gratify the heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these,
Must I, then, go which way I please?

Such reasoning is only true
If we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert,
According to the Introvert.

His absolute pre-supposition
Is - Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built,
But is secreted by my guilt.

The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.

My problem is how not to will;
They move most quickly who stand still;
I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.

If this should fail, perhaps I should,
As certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion;
In theory there is no solution.

All statements about what I feel,
Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began;
A hedge is taller than a man."

Anthropos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were a bird
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.

Across the road
A J-K girl,
Skipped and laughed
On her way to school.
She was strapped
To a big back-pack,
Looking like
A pink pack mule.
Behind her strove
Her drover,
Directing her to quarry
All the stones of learning.

By three o'clock
My minature mule,
A little slower
Trudged from school.
The pack was filled
With rules and tools.
She had panned
The ores of knowledge;
She'll assay them
In days to follow.

Each day my mule
Will turn the grindstone,
Crunching numbers,
Sifting fine poems.
She's mining all the hidden gems
To fill her back-pack
Once again.

royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words.*

i skullhead i,
i the skullhead, i,
no more a body than a maxim,
i the tomb in stone
but in body a bone,
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead,
no more a body than a maxim -
why will not death wilt
before engaging in the lives or mortals?
why will death meddle in mortal amorousness
when it will not meddle in a death of a god?
**** you death!
meddle elsewhere! who are prone
to breathe the same air as you;
interesting lives make less
of a library than libraries readily mothering
the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written...
eager ***** in section 1,
less eager ***** in section 1.5
mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed
by crosswords and those dumb books
written by young men who "diverged from living"
given horse was replaced by motorcycle...
and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by
ferrari... vroom vroom...
and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments;
let's wave to our mothers...
we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet
for sure...
it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa...
and i prefer theatre to conversation.

the rain falls down and i close my eyes enraptured
warm bright rays are pleasant but i take what i can

not as if i can't remember yesterday's torturing release
the clouds my worst enemy intently forcing the ****

life would be an intriguing alternative to this mess
of stringy wet hair half-frozen to itself and my face

i have a minature tent to make camp upon my head
if i open it the tent will become a sail and steal me

the rain is beating, warm, friendly, almost-kind
assuring me it would melt the ice if it dared return

we exchange bracelets, initialed hearts engraved
but crashing thunder interrupts, no blessing gives

i look up and the dark is ripped, a slender white string
my new friend abandons me in terror to the frost

numbly i just -- stay -- i can no longer care
i am yesterday, and the sky is spilling sleet

On a cafeteria table,
in the middle of February,
the kind where it gets dark at 5pm,
sat eight minature figurines made of shells—
brown, speckled, like a calico cat
with googly eyes on the middle of their heads,
one business man with a black derby,
one with a pretty pink bow,
or even one with blue suspenders,
and all their chubby bellies
rounding out over their pants. The woman

with her iridescent nails, bony fingers,
the skin pressed thin against her knuckles,
lines them up in a perfect row, tilting
their heads into one another as if
they are having a tiny conversation
admist the numbers being called—
B14! She stamps in red. B14!
A man pushes a cart around the tables,
like one mows grass around graves,
with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips
on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman
if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows
a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks
behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay.

G56! She touches the head of the figurine
with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count
of how many numbers I’ve missed,
but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh,
creeping, your fingers pushing
my cotton skirt up, up, and up—
O74!
We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers.
We’d like to win the lottery tickets,
maybe cash them in at the gas station
after we drink a couple iced teas and snack
on Mentos cause we ran out of money
two bottles ago.

The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil
that lies at the bottom of the eye,
lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend
that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t
the first time you’ve brought me here, G47!
instead of a real date. Or pretend
that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough,
and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls
or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly,
this way or that or

N44! She doesn’t have it. N44!
I don’t have it.
Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday,
she whispers, sideways from her mouth,
with your thumb making circles around my hipbones,
and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels
B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it.
I don’t have it.

walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.

the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them  the teabag people.
but to me they are like those  seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.

the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.

the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this ***** for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.

the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.

the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!

the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.

as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

What is it that I'm "in my head"?
The shape of my brain and skull act as a maze through which frequencies are played by the thought constructs which I employ.
It is like every attribute has a string or key which can be played, and every time it is played, it conjures all the processes which that key has encountered before.
Eyes half closed places me in my head, and body sometimes too.
Looking up is paying homage to the sky.
The ability to walk on two legs places humans between earth and heaven, two limbs can reach up, and two limbs touch bottom.
I have no visible tail, only a remnant of one, which makes my movement dependent on just these four limbs.
The head and spine being shared by all vertebrates, means that its sign is more diverse in nature.
Humans have the largest brains compared to the rest of the body.
However, an extra-terrestrial skeleton proved to have a brain/skull even larger than humans.

Consciousness is held much like using all the controls while driving a car: the eyes adjust, pressure in the skull and body is adjusted with muscles, the position of the body, neck, and head is adjusted.
Sounds are drown out or given attention.
The body can be divorced from emotion, virtue, and the universe.
The Self can be divorced from virtue, organization, emotion, and the universe.
Everything in such a state is local.
When things are local, I can only observe the scattering amplitudes.
If the scattering is very low, then the gross or macro-level world is all I see.
But what is different from a chair or sofa and a star or moon?
Both are made from the same universe.
The difference is that one was formed by humans, the other a part of nature.
What makes nature a better object of focus than man-made objects?
The man-made object tends to already have a use while the natural are base elements.
They signify the lowest grade of complexity.
Thus, my body is the lowest grade, the simplest, structure in the local home.
Being simple, it is like a canvas that can be painted, or a quarry from which a rock can be sculpted.

Now I switch to morning mode, which is about waking up and making progress.
But meditation is just as hard waking up as it is staying up sometimes.
I must once again ask the same questions in a new day.
What is consciousness?
Can it really be defined as a particular mechanism?
Wouldn't DNA be the best candidate, and it is made of compounds, which are found with the elements.
Yes, it seems science must switch from a "finding a particle" mode to a global life-form mode.
One which knows that life is a web of different things without any one of which the whole planet would fail.
"Finding a particle" mode has proven to be at the end of its run for finding them, as to find a graviton would prove impossible due to the amount of energy needed that would then create a minature black hole.
It seems like I'm a couch scientist, or a science critic not contributing to the picture.
The "finding a particle" mode is so hard to give up because it has been a part of science for over 100 years, which has shaped what a scientist does, how one thinks too.
However, the "web of life" mode gives a harder picture to deal with: one of thinking about social relationships between and within species and kingdoms.
It means that insight will no longer come from a "gold rush" type mentality of a find, but rather insight gleaned from a cooperative consultative stream of thought.
It takes the center away from the individual and places it on the community and the biosphere.
The biosphere or world civilization perspective takes away a lot of physics needed and instead offers a simpler picture, far simpler.
Now, I ask: how can social groups become more enlightened?
How will personal growth, science, the humanities, and social justice play a role?
How will spirituality, which so often is "other worldly" actually weaken this social structure if it is not focused on the simple practical matters in the "web of life" outlook?
I now see that asking "what is consciousness?", if asked too much, will prove to individualize and hamper people's worldview by placing its concern on minutia.
This "find a particle" view could even be seen as an illness which keeps people from having a more social outlook.
It means giving up the personal glory of the scientist, for the practical glory of the community, of the whole.
Instead, what will cause love to grow and hatred to end?
What will make conversations and interactions become more mature?

Now I turn to the element of virtues, which can be divorced from the human body if its goals are not aligned with them.
Addressing trama and how to cope, or simply depression and anxiety too.
The goal of course being a utopia where all can flourish physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
We must come to some shared understanding of how society best operates, or else we will keep contending with each other for a millennia.
I feel these shifts occur form injustice and the rally for justice in its wake.
It really comes down to the people in power making decisions today.
To how we treat those who share different beliefs, and how we distinguish from mere differences of opinion from a difference between knowledge and ignorance.
I can see both sides of abortion having good points.
I can see good all the way from a flat tax (like religion) to very high taxes on the wealthy.
I can see the difference from helping poeple survive to helping them thrive and knowing the good sides of both issues.
Moreover, I can see why too much nationalism and too much globalism could both be unjust due to the particular opinions of a mother nation, and the need for global unity.
I can see why adherence to one religion will only work if it is based on love and freedom, for love without freedom is not unconditional.
Meanwhile freedom without love leads to destruction.
However, erasing safety and protection from love and freedom would also lead to disaster.

Where is the balance?
That is what the "web of life" mode needs to deliberate.
This is a slow process.
The willingness of one can only affect others through wisdom not fanaticism in any degree.
What is consciousness?
The highest consciousness is deciding public affairs and interacting with others about public affairs.
Therefore, read, write, interact, and work.
Then reflect again and see how far we have come.

You said that you were leaving, you said you needed more
But hadn't we made sweet love just the afternoon before,
You'd rent a downtown studio and leave me with the lease
I found it hard to even breathe, oh lord grant me some peace
You said I had no vision, we know that's not quite true
I had such plans for just us three, our dog and me and you
A little house, a garden gate, you'd paint a pink front door
Now I won't save my money, cos we won't live there anymore
I'd buy you blue hydrangeas, you didn't like your nose
Your look was kinda quirky with ill fitting thrift store clothes

You started going out to clubs, loud music, flashing lights
But I don't really dance much and the drinks are overpriced
So I stayed home to mind our dog, he hates to be alone
Never checked when you  got home
I try to find a pattern to the lies and the deceit, were you exchanging numbers with the men that you would meet,
: It's just some drinks with girls' from work "
The texts that you'd delete

You took way more than your fair share, didn't leave me with enough, but I have my art, my dogs my books.
While you collected stuff, I vacuum the apartment and tidying up the drawers, the place looks so much cleaner than it ever was before
I finf some things you left behind and put them in a box
" Say could you come and get it, I'd appreciate it very much "
You say " I like what you have done how you've rearranged your stuff "
I think yeah it's called minimalist, cos you didn't leave me much
I hugged you said "You're looking good ' you didn't hug me back
And then you left I realized, dpon't need no welcome mat

Now every time I go downtown, I break out in a sweat
Cos I don't want to see you and I haven't seen him yet
So I'm moving to Los Angeles with palm trees, surf and sand
Though I will probably stay inside, cos I don't really tan
I'm standing on the sidewalk, waiting for my ride
My dog is in his carry case with his favourite chewy bone
I dread the lines, security, and travelling alone
But nowhere feels like home.

And every night I pray to God that it will end in tears
You'll wonder what became of me through the ensuing years,
You will pull my picture, I'll be by a pink front door,
Not looking wretched anymore, cos I'll have put on weight
You'll see the blue hydrangeas planted just inside the gate
And on a checkered blanket, under a shady tree
A little curly haired child, a minature of me
I hope you'll cry some bitter tears remembering what you,ve done
Does your mind ever take you to that dreamy Summer morn,
When we laughed and primped and preened, and put our finest on
Nervous anticipation, happiness and pride
Finally those five words were spoken  "you may kiss your bride "
With trembling hands I lifted up the creamy spotted lace,
Bent down and very softly kissed your pale and tear stained face

I'd buy you blue hydrangeas, you didn't like your nose
I used to like to watch you paint your pale and dainty toes
A pretty peachy colour, it's name was dusky rose
Don't know why I remember that, just lonely I suppose

Our milky way galaxy floating thru space
its translucent circling orb alight
alive prana  the dots of energy minature Stars
holding hue beings space travelers
in the darkness of space revealed
as prana we exit the womb living creation
the light orbs milk awaits us  
this cosmos existence adores  surrounds me
centering life in Earth the Eco-system
apter genick learning cells fighting extinction
imperial magistrates a re-leafing of stress
brought on by diet and habitat pollution
I reach into the sky aware of space travelling
regions the path prana exists in homes of love
to hold the consciousness of life the Universe
allows the roots chosen thru the cosmic life
in the living consciousness of love love
the binding force of all nature reactions living
for the one of all the great quest for Eternity
the beings of prauna sending cosmic messages
for the quest of being a Star is the mighty
life, has no god to rule it forth
ruled by the life creation alive
alining thru time and space all
the the orbs come together
the life energy of the future survivial
the mothers apter genick learning
of cells to reach all of life
to come together as one being
the one for ALL
a story to tell how will we survive
our pranua  each life orb a moment divine
seeking you out listen  feel the calling
life of humanity eternity the wailing over
you are here to be replaced
just visit to continue onward
life is pleasure open life to receive
live the moment  of egg and seed
the burst the rush rises and goes in a second
the prana of life creation memories
that lead to channels of new being
one drop of you or ten  moment upon moment
orbs dots of you swirling translucent
being the created in light of a moment
here we are manifested in a body a hue being
of light and dreams working out a scheme
to be eternity prana living the joy
the love of a moment for ever
to travel in time to be renewed
a change from born again
Eternity of love the orb of prana   gjmars 6/10/15

a frogs leap away
I found a whole new world

I lie on my back-

    Girls walk around

                   taking pictures

    they say that the lighting

       makes them feel funny



The river water rushes

     swiftly and silently

             over the dam

and a scrolling marquee informs me that

TIME STANDS STILL

                                    . . . COMING SOON



I'm talking to you on the phone-

My senses tell me that you're far away

          but my spirit knows you're here...



You were here once

You must be here now



Ahh yes, of course-



You are still here

but you have changed form



Now you are three girls

              takng pictures

And one boy scribbling

               in a notebook



Your body has changed

to a skyline and a raging river



I can see everything from here-

I know just where I want to go

        but I can't go there yet...



It's going to take a little bit of time-

                    But if time stands still

                             How do I get to you?



The girls are holding up a white sheet

and the model girl is changing behind it

and I can hear her slippind out of her clothes



Some older ladies have entered the frame-

They hold a paper doll in front of a camera

                 and take pictures of it

against the yellow tinted windows



The girls are leaving-

They say that when they get outside

they're going to be like



"Woah... What is color?"



And I hope they're wrong

because everyone deserves

             to see these colors



Miniature people ride minature bicycles

across a miniature bridge that spans

a miniature river



Time stands still

christianity acknowledges its prime lesson
only when laws of the land are in place
and effectively disposed of,
easily done when the culprit in prison
lazing about, easily done there
like john paul ii, to forgive once in the zoological
jurisprudence enclosure, easily done there,
but outside?
my prime culprit who harmed
sat with me during english class shoulder to shoulder,
who chanced a poetic expression
at the end of secondary schooling,
who i played a happy birthday on the guitar:
who’s mother i could have adored as my own,
who i would have waited for hours on end
till our meeting...
but alas that wasn’t to be...
the prime suspect inflicted me with a fake mental disorder...
one i was trying to be rid of over these past eight years,
the woman who craved so much love she encountered
in the poker discard that she only could enclose the one
given by first stripping the man’s caution of the ******,
to later ingest anti-pregnancy pills,
ask the man to buy an engagement ring...
and then stop taking the contraceptive pills
in order to feed the lie of the pills’ placebo...
the friend of childhood, the lawyer decided to
outstretch and become a judge...
of not noble origin he now stands in his profession
outside the bird cage hearing law...
with his own encounter now solidly expressed
by dodging bullets that might hit him but never do...
so is my ode through?
nah... i have an insolent crowd to deal with...
the mockers and magpies
like it was a yacht i had in my hand or a diamond...
******* and fast cars are not the only worthy reward...
the last time i’ll trust a woman
it’ll be my mother speaking her epithaph with assured death...
then i’m through...
but i hope to drink myself to death... like a true writer would care
to mind a legacy...
i don’t mind... i have “morally superior” stoners
franchise on the smoky ****...
they resolved the matter by calling all alcoholics
the stella artois crew...
throw in some metabolic facts and you tend to forget
alcohol is a calorie intake...
the homosexuals couldn’t take it...
even the homosexuals broke down...
all the trans-gender fancies gave the homosexuals legality
and a step into sanity...
it’s odd, years of stigmatised homosexuality
gone within years... acceptance speeches,
heretosexuals siding with the arguments of homosexuality:
trans-gender is too much, even for us!
baphomet rose up in his chariot with **** that
could not be milked unless pouring of celluloid
and gave birth to minature barbies and kens...
but what really breaks my heart is the sheer anonymity
in the mechanics of democracy...
voting in democracy is like *******...
in the x-booth... and then the quick exchange of power
lasting five years... it seems no one is responsible anymore...
quickly implemented and as quickly signed off
without a legislation of worth signature...
i had this dream last night...
i was making love to this ****** girl (someone has to,
as burroughs said: you in for sloppy seconds
or the starter of chaotic emotion when acknowledging
a sexuality of the otherwise hermaphrodite teen mind?),
then i started to paint with blood soaked phallus on a wall
and then started urinating blood on the wall of emerging graffiti...
in the other room people were shouting: but she’s only a child!
but she’s only a child!
then a girl and a boy entered the room i was in...
and from their hands placed in my hand
four necklaces... ****** mary medallions
that placed, in my head, were heavier than expected.
in reality i tried to use my phallus as a scalpel on first attempt...
so why mutilate the girl if the ****** curtain can be cut?
such are the times that it has never felt more
ridiculous to allow women the freedom with the rich male hares
and the subsequent freedom of settling down
with some dumb schmuck ******* when the fun becomes tedious
and the biological clock echoes like the clock
in the croc's belly on peter pan island;
the last time i spotted a noble swan
i also spotted a drunk pigeon taking a **** on nelson’s head.

brittle leaves swing with windchime thrills
scattering minature fairy hats northwards
bristle tops of seeded whimsy
light strokes branches of resilience
revealing notches and furrows filled with courage
warmed and hazelnut tones of sap and towering elegance
in the end flourishing into taffeta skirts of green
plumes, plums and sour-apple caterpillars

LEAVING

I scrape my shadow
off of the wall.
.
Fold and re-fold it.
Pack it neatly in

a tiny suitcase.
More a hold all.

All that's left is
a slight stain

on some wallpaper
roses.

Already fading.

A scrap of sunlight
chases itself

like an annoying
yappy dog.

A broken bit of glass
sticks in my toe.

I peel my reflection
from the full length mirror.

It is like trying to
grapple water.

It comes unstuck
lifts off with a slight gasp.

I funnel it into
a minature

empty shampoo bottle
250 mls.

Outside a taxi
honks its horn.

Its sound invades
the silence

of this box
like room.

Four wall that
( even now )

fail to recognise me.

"Where to mate?"
asks the driver.

I look at his photo
!.D.

"A. Death."
it reads

as if this was some kind
of surreal joke.

"Anywhere and nowhere."
I answer.

"Anywhere and nowhere."

Spilling over the top
Magnolia decorates daylight
Upon minature words
Incased in fluffy clouds
Ones that still softly
Without movement
Where the surface is
In suspended lockdown
Sitting silently inside
Ready to give
The walls a fresh look
Of happiness
To bring smiley faces
Into a new home
Where life positivity
Gives a whole new perceptive
Of nice lazy
Live in the moment days

minature
eyes up
downtown house
party line
drawing water
tower over
sight failing
that is

LEAVING

I scrape my shadow
off of the wall.
.
Fold and re-fold it.
Pack it neatly in

a tiny suitcase.
More a hold all.

All that's left is
a slight stain

on some wallpaper
roses.

Already fading.

A scrap of sunlight
chases itself

like an annoying
yappy dog.

A broken bit of glass
sticks in my toe.

I peel my reflection
from the full length mirror.

It is like trying to
grapple water.

It comes unstuck
lifts off with a slight gasp.

I funnel it into
a minature

empty shampoo bottle
250 mls.

Outside a taxi
honks its horn.

Its sound invades
the silence

of this box
like room.

Four wall that
( even now )

fail to recognise me.

"Where to mate?"
asks the driver.

I look at his photo
!.D.

"A. Death."
it reads

as if this was some kind
of surreal joke.

"Anywhere and nowhere."
I answer.

"Anywhere and nowhere."

toss in the towel
still to know all the great while
the system was slightly broken
a common word lest spoken
through thunder lips one could abyss
hidden sorrow through the loosened tricks,

seasoned with salt coming apart in the text
with words confessed
***** laundry there goes the up stream
helpless, hopeless & agreed

shattered complex to the knees
the folks learned through the breeze
the national news coming across as you choose
a barber with shoes knock apart your blues

the avengers sharpened forever

we live, laugh & love
through the honest streets of gold
spare the word of time let go
bust up the beat onto its best tempo

see the timbers from storming nature
the desire affection in the ocean magic potion
love the benefit of affection from common dressing
trading spaces mass infection with used attention

The Avengers come clear an angel imparts to freeze
suckers in the motion to pretend
at close to defend within waiters end
a special pardoning vent

onto each section of the main gates phenomial preachers gather
behind its squeeky wheel a game of make believe,
see the notion of peace while you grief cheddar cheese
humbled by the cement blocks that oppose the gate farewell to please

fly by night on a distant right...,
pillows through Autumn billows fried to check
columns of minature but not forgotten smoke
since when do you Vape make no mistake

the parting confession from here to steal