My soul has an echo
Even when I say nothing
When I do not call out
To demons
In the darkness
Perhaps only when
Rocks from the precipice
From poorly shodden cliffs
Shoot into the abyss
It is your name
That calls back to me
It is you who resides
In my deepest depths
My soul has an echo
The wanderings of my heart
Have made you their muse
No matter my song
You are my melody

is fitting you?
The shiny metal kind
like a boxer wears after a match-
his eyes glass flares

or the night sky against the sea
like a street stalker's ****** spree

or the stringy hair on her head
in a wooden box-
her last bed

or this land in dust
after the nuke
all is rust
earth cloaked in puke

Coming Apart

marketing value of brains
marketing worth of knowing

college sorting machine

Murray from the Bell Curve

Just yesterday Lex Fridman, and this guy
odd co-suggestion
- do you think we are evolving?
A shared culture,
shared tastes and prefer-
ences incessant conferences

2022, and a few, a rare few, seeing
bits in patterns of eight,
2-bits, et cetera

Samuel Johnson, obscure as can be,
practically kabalisticly mysteriousus,
sum mostus
firstus, fundus mentalis, serpent mind/

Marshall McLuhan 1967--
Buckminster Fuller

The Beatles, et al,

Acid, Grace Slick, Tallahachee Bridge,
Rick Ridenour Suicide
1970 - too late, too soon, take your time,

put it back into your head, your head, baby,
it was all real
it was all real at the time, so long
so long, since we found some body

to love, till the end
of time,

tipped and split into ever more, after
never before.

There was never such a time as this.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

that song is so beautiful
and the strings make me cry
but I forget that an instrument needs to be taken care of too
in order to sound so wonderful.

it is soothing to see them,
taking care of one another.

A child's smile
A cup of tea
A walk in the woods
A fleeting sense of serenity
An eruption of joy
Happiness
A magic moment
in the labyrinth
of our existence