We snap a shameless selfie
And post at once online.
Me and wifey smiling sweet
Whilst we play or dine!

Now some say it quite conceited
To paste one's mugs so much.
But we know its really just
More modernly in touch.

It took a bit to email,
And then to switch to text -
Now it's all on Facebook.
Who knows what will be next?

So easy on our selfies
It's really not self toot
It's more about assuring
We still live and compute.

(C) 2011 All rights reserved

We are two times, yours and mine.
We touch to make our times the same.

From the bottom up;

Through the physical differences
That both separate us
And allow us to join;

And through that which marks
Where once we were joined with our Mother,
From which separation,
We shall know our anger;

And through that which beats
At intervals that parallel the cycles of the Universe,
And so makes us one;

Then through that which speaks,
And so, through renouncement, articulates
That which is known;

Unto that which beholds the image of God,
Or that which cannot be known:

Whereby this coiled up energy
Emerges through contemplation

Of all that we embrace, and
All that we release.

A tremor among flutters of the hand:
Excess vibration – it’s certain to involve a deeper rhythm –
Certain self images sent bent;
Light striking irregular glass.

Eyes contract, weight shifts, a
Break in conversation.
Caught in a moments maze
All obstacles avoided reconstruct,
All exits rearrange.

There are other signs:
Brood and singularity, thoughts
Perpendicular to sense,
Doubt challenging belief.
Perhaps another shuffling of the deck,

A steady murmur, a muttering,
A constant twang or certain slur of contradiction.
Mind insufficient, though desperate to respond:
“No more!  No urge!”
No self-recrimination to excuse the selfish stupor….

But there is silence in good scotch –
As when reverberations peak,
Then separate the sound from voice
And thought from all compassion.

Mental mechanics adjusting my brain,
speed up my motor, tighten my chain.

They say I am timed right
(they can tell just by listening);
but, don’t understand why
still I am missing.

A memory perhaps, a trauma, a wreck
jarred loose some something,
they said they would check.

They tinkered, they tested,
they wired me up, gauged my
compression, then fired me up.

I trembled, I sputtered, I coughed
and I cried, I started,
then stuttered,

then died.

It’s unusual for strong expressions to transform contextually in common usage.  “I’m *******.” is one great example. “I’m *******.” is, in origin and essence, a toned-down version of “I’m ******.” Whichever form you choose, both are self-proclaimed damnation. Unlike “I’m ******.” though, “I’m *******” has lost all coarseness and is seldom eschewed no matter how young or prim the lips that form the words. We hear it at work, on elementary school playgrounds, at church, on the news. It has become in the English language the universal acknowledgement of hapless circumstance, foregone conclusion and frustrated failure. And it translates easily from self to others to groups of any size and may be past, present or future tense. So next time you hear, “I/we/you/she/he/they are/we’re/will be *******.” pause ever so slightly and exchange “******” for “*******” and see if the transformation is as subtle but startling for you as it is for me.

In a similar vein, being a screwup is unfortunate but not nearly as bad as being a ******. Here again, two totally identical connotations of identical origin. One you hear everywhere, the other primarily in bars, the street, sporting events and among close friends and closer enemies talking or not talking politics.

George Carlin’s hilarious “Usage of the Word ****” routine gave numerous examples of how versatile is the word “****.” Some, but not all, could use “*****” but few of the interchangeable examples use the word ***** nearly as ******* effectively as the word ****. And some are not interchangeable at all: we don’t talk about things being “nearly as ******* effective.... It just doesn’t work. Similarly, “I’d like to ******* *****.” makes perfect sense but “I’d like to ******* ****.” makes no sense at all. So the words are not interchangeable.

But, for some reason, over time, the English language evolved, letting ******* mean ****** in a socially acceptable way while also letting ******* mean ****** in a ****** way or in a ******* way. And I have a theory how it happened.

Have you ever had to put a ***** in something directly over your head and maybe a bit out of reach? Of course you have. And like many a normal person you found the task embarrassingly difficult. After once or twice there’s yet again. You say, Ah ****! I have to ***** up.” And you knew you were ******. And you’d inevitably **** it up even if ever so slightly dropping the *****, or worse, falling off the ******* ladder. Then you’d really be ******! But you didn’t say that. No, that wouldn’t be polite. So you’d say you were ******* because you had to ***** up and would likely ***** it up and die trying falling off the ladder. And with so many people over and over again not so proficient with a ***** driver the language simply evolved.

Now I know you find this whole discussion a bit screwy. That’s okay. Even George found no reason to say something was “a bit fucky.”

Thank you.

2020 All screwy rights reserved

My woman, she done left me,
My wife, she may go too.
I shake my head and wonder
What am I going to do?
I got the busted knee blues.
Yeah, the busted knee blues.
I’d get down on my knees and pray
But that, I can not do.

I limp around the house at night
I limp into my bed.
My wife say she don’t do no limp;
And that is all she said.
It’s the busted knee blues,
Yeah, **** busted knee blues!
I’d get down on my knees and pray.
But that, I can not do.

I shook my cane at God on high!
But He was not amused -
He lit my cane wit lightning
And now I’m all confused!
I got the busted knee blues.
Yeah man, the busted knee blues.
I’d get down on my knees and pray.
But that, I can not do.
I’d get down on my knees and pray
But you know Lord, that I can not do.

Butterfly poised on
uprooted tree leaf. Sunrise
dries damp wings, dense air.
Initial condition blown
here by the storm it creates.

One legged outlaw
Old John Yawtaw
Old time card-shark
Bite worse than bark.

Old John Yawtaw
Unshaven, flesh raw
Passed out, exposed,
***** hole-ridden clothes.

Old time card-shark
On a bench in the park,
Ornery and mean and
Quite often obscene.

Bite worse than bark,
Look-out after dark!
He'll holler and wink
And steal for a drink.

One legged outlaw
Played five card draw,
Barred from three states
For cheating with eights.

But for opposition, thought disintegrates, dissolves!
No contradictions noticed! No doubt and no resolve.

Take away each yes or no, eliminate off and on;
Neither true nor false decide: discrimination gone!

Time and space evaporate. No concepts thus remain.
Though reality still constant, no knowledge to retain.

When I was six my mama said
She’d pay me for each ten
Flies I got alive or dead
A penny.

So I wandered room to room
Swatter cocked to ****….
Listening for the tell-tale buzz
Of a fly on a windowsill.

Whap! Would go the swatter.
Splat! Another fly.
Whappity-wahappity, WHAP! SPLAT! WHAP!
Die. Die. Die.

Soon the hunt was over.
Not a fly remained.
The windowsills were dotted black;
the swatter smeared and stained.

I collected all the bodies
To see what death would bring:
Mama paid me seventeen cents
(and some were only wings!).

Today at school we learned about
How baby seals die:

“Mama, did you make a hat
Out of all those flies?”

The image of a woman stuns me -
My fiver year old daughter’s flower,
Left in green thin wrap to wilt

Now stuck through the water
In the giant plastic glass
I keep by my sink, opening,

Vibrant, in the incandescent light
As I brush my teeth and tongue
Spitting dreams one instant, then

Studying tooth stain and belly
Overlapping the new day
And my naked soul diffused.

A pink carnation spreads across the bath
As much aware of me as the effort
Needed to crush the moist petals

Isolates intent from joy
And fragile insights blossom
Into observation nearly lost.

Now, I delight; though, only now
A giant plastic glass filled
Sustains a few moments: embellishes

Simple life almost lost unnoticed
In the crisp and folded expectations
Of foregone conclusions.

Her mother stands naked too, her hand
Touching her soft skin wilting softer
And her soft *******, softer still – and desire

Crumbles unnoticed in a delicate heap -
Yet an unearthed Flower ***** the air and
Blooms easily through its final hours.

It somehow makes sense that
My daughter’s flower blooms
While the image of a woman stuns me,

And the water and light infuse my soul
Tightly aware that confounded and confused
I comfort her like a stem.

By one hand the knife made ready,
In the other flips a fish;
Suddenly, the two are steady
In the rhythm of the slish.

And worthy men and worthy craft
Rebuke the jarring waves that lash
Each man starboard, port and aft,
With bitter wet and violent crash.

And carcass after carcass tossed
Lifeless to the ****** hold
Shimmers, though the light is lost,
And the dreary day grows cold.

And vagrants in the trawler’s wake
Bobbing back atop the swells
Flutter up then swoop to take
The sacrament of fish entrails.

Here, wind and rain and haze dilute.
Yellow, green, red, brown converge.
And the gray is absolute,
And time and mind and sense diverge.

Moments roll as waves uncounted.
Thoughts are scattered as debris
On pebbles of perception rounded
By the endless surge of sea.

And rivers rise and passion flows
Inward channeled by belief.
Images drift by then go
To certainty, or doubt so brief.

And certain as the banks concede
To the wash and swirl and spray
So the tide and time recede
Shaping yet another day.

Fate, your ice is hard and cold
But thinner in the end I'm told.

I glance up and see hovering
one moment, darting elsewhere
then back, a haphazard discovering
of the next right place aloft to be
totally unaware of me and my delight
at such an unexpected sight!
Iridescently graceful. The sunlight on its wings sufficient magic for  such effortless
flight.

At once I sense the slight shift in my perspective: that reality distorted by my ceaseless resurgent recollection and rampant speculation both articulating each next moment.

I struggle with the illusion of free will; supposing mastery of the calculus of human destiny; when all I truly do is engage in all variety of fight or flight; or suppose that God might barter faith for favor.

How human to imagine my mind sufficient to know the next right place aloft to be when in fact I could never know what choice of mine might influence me to lift my eyes to see a red dragonfly!

Is it a mere insect? A mere bug all a flutter? Or does it bode good fortune and vitality or is it a harbinger of death and transformation? It could matter, and secretly I wish it to transform my fate, making me special, gobsmacked by the hint of the mysterious and sublime.

But it's not that. Not really. It's no more than the intersection of gratitude and faith - the former arising from the moment past and the latter from the unknowable moment next.

cl - 2022

I cast a shadow most clearly
In the light.
Better though this shadow
Then hiding in the night.


(C) - 2003

Touched by silken ropes,
Has feeling tied you up in knots?
Does a thief within your mind
Steal away your thoughts?

"Call the marshall," said the judge,
"This feeling stands accused
Of taking thought and word away
And making me confused."

"Call the jury," said the judge,
"What verdict have you reached?"
"Guilty on all counts, we think
A lesson should we teach."

Locked within a tiny cell
The mind shall guard its thief.
Walls of thought and bars of words
Seal in belief.

What’s the relation
Of your explanation?
It’s off the subject we’re on!

Alphabet soup,
And Greek loop-the-loop,
Alpha, phi, beta? – Come on!

With little persuasion
You form an equation:
x + y = z.

“What happened to numbers,”
Will mumble the stumblers.
“What happened to 1, 2, and 3?”

Yet numbers are few
For one such as you -
A master of hieroglyphics.

A genius needs not
What others need taught
To hell with a few good specifics.

Yet you say not to worry,
Take my time and not hurry.
Relax! Be calm! Take a rest!

Though perhaps you are right,
What then for tonight?
Tomorrow’s the day of the test!

The blues is a feelin’-
they keeps stealin’ my good soul away.

Yeah, the blues they is a feeling,
keep stealin’ my good soul away.

I got no way to catch em,
them blues, they sneaky that way.

Now my good soul is gone,
an somebody gotta pay.

Granddad sits on a sawhorse
   Riding yesterdays into tomorrow.

Consider essential breaths of air, and the expulsion of stale air caused by living tissue to vibrate outward through the mouth, twisted by the tongue, ultimately, effortlessly, sculpted into words quite literally expressed. Then, when heard, this mere turbulence of updraft and downdraft instinctively intertwined, innervates the cells of the brain and recreates the voice of what in man, we call the mind. It is astounding!

I have been fascinated with language my entire life.

I don't possess the imaginative, creative or intellectual prowess of those who have found success in writing. Whether I have special talent or ability to compose from mere fragments of sound something singularly meaningful or moving or enchanting or grand is candidly, beyond my innermost aspiration: it has never been a serious pursuit. I recognize great works of others and profess my awe and my lack of reach openly.

But, my study and reading and writing of poems emerged from that thrill I felt and still feel at the sound that is the very essence of each word, written or spoken. It is the power of language as a pattern of sound - the resonance of words however articulated, that has and will always give me special joy.

Language is taken for granted. We speak, communicate, read and write throughout our lives.  

We may speak of the meanings of words. We might study their origin, the evolution of language. Or we might focus only on the functional aspects of language: the organizational utility that letters and words and grammar and spelling and punctuation and composition and ultimately, pronunciation and articulation contribute constructionally to the primary aim which is communication.

We may cherish only the results - the great stories and novels, or spiritual and philosophic admonitions and inquiries, or favorite song lyrics or poetry that wondrously compresses language into some uniquely evocative mental, emotional and/or spiritual experience.

How impoverished would we be without the articulation of ideas and concepts and personal experience that language makes possible?

For some reason, in addition to respecting the power of language, I have always been compelled on impulse to hear the actual words and marvel at them - to play with them and study their tonal quality merely as fragments of sound heard actually or heard only echoing about in the silence of my mind.

It is the sounds of the words themselves, more than any image or sentiment a particular poem of mine might be constructed around, that I hope to offer in the form of this otherwise unremarkable collection of personal art. For each that might visit, I hope the few minutes spent are enjoyable and worthy and that your own words give you joy, too.

So you’re a crystal lover
And I’m a cut-glass friend.
The sun is your endeavor -
Its light your facets sever.
Though I’m clever with the wind,
No rainbows shall I bend.
But music I will send -
Can you hear?

Lend me your ear,
I give you my eye.
Send me your tear,
I offer my sigh.
Love is to listen
And love is to see -
Love won’t you glisten
A love song to me?

There once was a wise old sage, who for years carried with him a tiny ball of silken thread, given him, when first he started sageing. One morning, upon arising from a restless nights sleep, before going on with his days wanderings, he sat down beneath a tree to ponder the ball of thread. Gaining no realization from this, he stood and tied one end of the string to the tree. The other he would take with him on his day’s travel letting the ball unravel until at last it would be understood as but a single strand of silk. Without further delay or thought on the matter, he started off across the countryside.

At the end of the day, when the sun had at last fallen behind the farthest rise, and the ball of thread had at last dwindled down to but a single strand, the sage sat down to discover what meaning was to be found.

“It began as a ball of silken thread.” he thought. “It has come to an end where I now sit. Now I must either go tomorrow without the gift that was once given me, or waste today’s journey by following the string back to where I began this morning.” This dilemma brought the sage to meditate the rest of the night.

By morning he had arrived at what he hoped a wise solution.

With great determination the sage gave one, mighty yank, and broke the thread from the tree where he had tied it. Through the course of this new day’s journey, he wound the thread into the tiny ball it once was. That night he returned the ball to its pouch, and satisfied at last, lay down and died.

Moments of sorrow, moments in vain
And today is tomorrow’s yesterday’s pain –
Time slowly washing the memories away
As moments keep falling like soft falling rain.

Where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?

A past in the future, a future now past –
Nothing is solid. Nothing may last.
And shadows are lost as darkness surrounds
But for flashes before more confusion resounds.

And where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?

All so wet and dreary and cold –
Where is the warm hand to touch and to hold?
Why all the fret? Why weary so long?
Where is the comfort in singing this song?

And where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?

Moments of sorrow, moments in vain
And today is tomorrow’s yesterday’s pain –
Time slowly washing the memories away
As moments keep falling like soft falling rain.

And moments keep falling like soft falling rain.

clj – 3-2-88 – 4:12am

It just makes sense to insist
to not be dismissed
by you on the silly premise
that acceptance of you requires
tolerance of intolerable disrespect.

You may choose;
But your choice is one harmonica
In a marching band.

You witness dereliction,
Obtuse public officials,
You are enraged.

Around you, idiots refuse to speak up.
Laryngitis afflicts the voice of the people.
And you are the croaking,
The strained exasperation.

Hear the band? Hear the different drums?

Now listen.

Truth is a snow cone still melting and trampled.
Integrity is a little flag on a little stick,
Justice is a Cadillac and good folks waving.
The law is a thousand empty peanut shells
Exploded underfoot

And see that balloon, way up, up, up, gone?

That is the spirit of America.

– 1980 –  Denver

Maybe I’m wasted, a bit
out of mind, and my
mainspring is busted
and now I won’t wind.

Maybe you’re laughing.
Now, maybe you’re sad,
or dancing, or sitting,
or simply gone mad.

I won’t tell the time to you,
I won’t sing a song,
I won’t chime to you
Rhyme to you
Ding! Ding! ****!
For you. Not even
For your asking.

No, time has stopped for now.
And until you notice how,

There is no now.

No, now I won’t wind.

Denver - 1978

I hate love poems.
I hate wet blubbering fools.
I hate ting! – ting! silver bells.
I hate, I hate, I hate
Cute I love you’s;
Little, naked cupids
Bow-bent, waiting.

I hate love poems.
I hate sweet hot convulsions on paper.
I hate. Oh! Oh! Ahh…..!
Desire when
Two touch.

I hate love poems.
I hate silent bells
And broken arrows,
I hate boo – hoo –
Love poems dipped in
Hate – thick red
And dripping
Self defense.

But most of all,
I hate
The soft,
And final,
Kiss.

So you’re a crystal lover
And I’m a cut-glass friend.
The sun is your endeavor –
Its light your facets sever.
Though I’m clever with the wind,
No rainbows shall I bend.
But music I will send –
Can you hear?

Lend me your ear,
I give you my eye.
Send me your tear,
I offer my sigh.
Love is to listen
And love is to see –
Love won’t you glisten
A love song to me?

On this final walkabout, I'm not ashamed to say what friends and even strangers feign: "He grows old."

I do grow old. But I survived when too many left too early.

I feel I am being transformed, albeit, at times its seems an alarming rate that makes each new day a precious gift of gratitude I spin around me.

Despite the stooped, awkward gate and fragile skin and fondness for good friends and children and especially grandchildren I know how important it is to move over and let others have their fill as much or more than have I.

I see the white head of hair and bulging belly and bags under my eyes and note I'm not as sharp as I used to be - that last bit is frustrating - but I see no great loss to the world or even those around me. Secretly I think my former sharpness dulled on grins and nods and silence.

Oddly, I sometimes think the twinkle of an eye is a flashing beam warning those younger to steer clear of complacency and self-importance and most of all, shallow embrace.

I celebrate the release of all this - whatever life is - as this filament of joy. The memories and skills and learning and loving reforms around me. It will hold me and protect me and will ultimately be my shroud.

In a moment of hope, I wonder if only butterflies arrive at the gates of Heaven transporting back, hidden in the dust on their wings, a bit of the Soul, and then, in that special way butterflies fly, flap then glide into eternity.

Grim white string hangs a wheel Rawdon; hangs it dead.

I push empty basket clanking drunk past pop-tarts and puffed-rice, by fruit loops and shredded wheat – weaving, nearly topple a stacked display of men all smiling eat my oats.

In aisle six a young fat woman in yellow stretch pants and white tee-shirt - obviously braless – smiles marshmallows at me.

In aisle seven a withered, man in black trousers and wrinkled black shirt glances nervously up  from the contents of cat food and smiles toothless and bewildered.

My basket wobbles as I walk;
somewhere, a loaf of bread? – a peach? Here, only brooms, and plastic pails, – tidy bowl and Sani-flush. At the far end of the aisle a pretty, young nun holding **** & Span smiles hell at me.

In the produce section I am stopped
bagging peaches. A big man in a white suit smiles.  “Young man, where is the meat? **** bread and fruit! I feel carnivorous: ready to eat something ******, to gnaw, break bone of lamb, or fowl, or slaughtered steer.”

I answer pointing, “Over there…
See the plump little girl poking
her plump fingers into ****-roasts?”

He eyes her deliciously and winks;
yells, “What’s for dinner, baby?!”

Outside, I squint and grin,
peach juice trickles down my chin,
the sun is hot, and sparrows pick
at break crumbs on the street.

I roll away in my basket on three wheels downhill laughing.

– 1980 Denver

My mother collects things
Like a leopard collects its spots,
Like a moth gathers dust on its wings
and a poet collects his thoughts.

What holds my face
and my mouth twisting
my eyes blaring
my skin transparent
yellow-grey
my teeth gnashing
my nostrils pumping
my lips vibrant cracking?

What waking; or sleep so sound
and body split from soul
holds my face as others see it?

Then what sleep release
this phantom man – this mad
and haunting me?

I dreamt I awoke
almost, and lethargic –
but compelled stand up
(it wasn’t standing really)
a wind-up toy unwinding
winding down, urgent
to sleep, but unable.

Then to face that face –
myself in the mirror –
a snarled smirking face!

I dreamt that I was dreaming
and dreamt I woke
and knowing great fear
woke again holding my face,
then slept an instant later
unaltered through the night.

– 1983  Denver