Future projects include, trimming my beard, but only to replace the one I have.

Another project could be to omit the subject noun whereby relaxing any proposed meaning to superficiality or replace with an Ubernoun to be discovered later.

I am writing in the stile of Typhoon Murphy.  

I am having a profound realization that my non-writing writing has gone all wrong.  I, for one, am not worried as much as profoundly disengaged.  Dot, dot, dot.

A bio-recap:  If I am conscience of God then I am also wrong about many other things too.  

If I ignore my thoughts, they then, in turn, will ignore me.  BUT STILL...it hurts.

If the water I drink is tainted then I am slowly poisoning the earth EVEN AFTER cremation.

The tremors of the heart
Can be mended

But slowly, slowly, slowly

Would you care to be laden by the fire?
O, someday, someday, someway

Will you dare ever waken to a song?
Sat song, a sitting song, that you wont need to don’t get up

Far be it from me Mr. Snead
To level off on the misty foutenou

Winding down a path of fortune heading south on
Bare breast street, looking for but longing more

Under-bred sister with her family get-togethers
Passing the
Potato famine remembered story

On the rhinebek [Rheinbach] mountain top
Swig after swig
Dwarfing all that come after
Our being here

Let that be the lesser

I guess I want

I want the prize of youth
I want an atheist certainty
That pride in knowing how things are
I want that person who ignores me

I want what my father and his father want

A faith that has a dollar sense about it all

I want that death knell

To freeze.

This then

Is a last ditch effort to throw words at you

Without hate.

dickens might have complained
how unlucky
it was to be born,
poor, helpless, friendless, body-less
painless,

my lies lie with my sins
like white **** frost
trying to warm my heart

but so far nothing.

I would liked to have kept it
that way

last year, anyway

this book is
based on an
inner experience…

no, strike that

an inner experience
basked in sun drenched
aura's spilling their little yellow drops
of
blood money.

Modern pieces less than broke
Greater than places to store them

Less than assunder
Torn
greater than
By bankcraft
Greater than
Frightened less than
By Cowering
Wretched
Towering

Greater than shivers
of unending
Guarantees of happiness

Basically

unkept
Promises

Opening up to swallow
Your less than ninth
scented sensed
Throated
Greater than less
Om

I can believe
In you
Halfway

And the rest
Needs
To be
In parts

Facing
You

Fading me

Tiny
To the
Very end

She,
a Prophet
Running

guided by rails.

Smashing
cities
Like pumpkins

Gliding currents
underfoot

Shadowed
by rats

A marshal’s maxim -
Crush thy liberty

again no proof
Of humanity.

Cold and hungry
I see you

Falling off the track
I say,

I'm sorry

I can't

Help
You.

*

Subway wheels peel
With Liturgical
Regularity

stepping closer
To the edge

Steelpans
Are on the
Rise

A central pin
Bears the brunt of
The ride

the axlebox reeks
Of sin

Some unknown passenger
Is sick
and tired
and running up costs

As fast as he can scan the car
He whistles a merry tune

From the sounds of horns below to the bells above

I keep remembering
What I said,
“I'm sorry, I just can't
Help
You”

"I bequeath unto me
an impartial you"

Happy, alone,
Depressed
Again

How
Many mind-numb-fullnesses
Do I have
Left?

Looking out the window
gazing vacantly
At
Vacant lots
Tripping over
white lies
To tell
Her
I am lost

While my stomach
Works on its bends

A final punture
Of its fabric
of hope, peace and kindness
Leaks out

We, once strong in tolerance

Were the ones
That
kept you afloat

We,
the one ounce olmec
Cabezas.

Has there ever been a time
I have been so wrong

When feeling something
for this long?

Quits.

At night the states

I forget them or I wish I was there
          in that one under the
Stars. It smells like June in this night
          so sweet like air.
I may have decided that the
          States are not that tired
Or I have thought so. I have
          thought that.

At night the states
And the world not that tired
          of everyone
Maybe. Honey, I think that to
          say is in
light. Or whoever. We will
          never
replace you. We will never re-
          place You. But
in like a dream the floor is no  
          longer discursive
To me it doesn’t please me by
          being the vistas out my
window, do you know what
          Of course (not) I mean?
I have no dreams of wake-
          fulness. In
wakefulness. And so to begin.
          (my love.)

At night the states
talk. My initial continuing contr-
          diction
my love for you & that for me
deep down in the Purple Plant the oldest
          dust
of it is sweetest but states no longer
          how I
would feel. Shirt
that shirt has been in your arms
          And I have
that shirt is how I feel

At night the states
will you continue in this as-
          sociation of
matters, my Dearest? down
          the street from
where the public plaque reminds
          that of private
loving the consequential chain
          trail is
matters

At night the states
that it doesn’t matter that I don’t
          say them, remember
them at the end of this claustro-
          phobic the
dance, I wish I could see I wish
          I could
dance her. At this night the states
          say them
out there. That I am, am them
          indefinitely so and
so wishful passive historic fated
          and matter-
simple, matter-simple, an
          eyeful. I wish
but I don’t and little melody.
          Sorry that these
little things don’t happen any
          more. The states
have drained their magicks
          for I have not
seen them. Best not to tell. But
          you
you would always remain, I  
          trust, as I will
always be alone.

At night the states
whistle. Anyone can live. I
can. I am not doing any-
          thing doing this. I
discover I love as I figure. Wed-
          nesday
I wanted to say something in
          particular. I have been
where. I have seen it. The God
          can. The people
do some more.

At night the states
I let go of, have let, don’t
          let
Some, and some, in Florida, doing.
          What takes you so
long? I am still with you in that
          part of the
park, and vice will continue, but
          I’ll have
a cleaning Maine. Who loses
          these names
loses. I can’t bring it up yet,
          keeping my
opinions to herself. Everybody in
          any room is a
smuggler. I walked fiery and  
          talked in the
stars of the automatic weapons
          and partly for you
Which you. You know.
At night the states
have told it already. Have
          told it. I
know it. But more that they
          don’t know, I
know it too.

At night the states
whom I do stand before in
          judgment, I
think that they will find
          me fair, not
that they care in fact nor do
          I, right now
though indeed I am they and
          we say
that not that I’ve
          erred nor
lost my way though perhaps
          they did (did
they) and now he is dead
          but you
you are not. Yet I am this
          one, lost
again? lost & found by one-
          self
Who are you to dare sing to me?

At night the states
accompany me while I sit here
          or drums
there are always drums what for
          so I
won’t lose my way the name of
          a
personality, say, not California
          I am not
sad for you though I could be
          I remember
climbing up a hill under tall
          trees
getting home. I was
going to say that the air was
          fair (I was
always saying something like
          that) but
that’s not it now, and that
          that’s not it
isn’t it either

At night the states
dare sing to me they who seem
          ******
any more I’ve not thought I
          loved them, only
you it’s you whom I love
the states are not good to me as
          I am to them
though perhaps I am not
when I think of your being
          so beautiful

but is that your beauty
          or could it be
theirs I’m having such a
          hard time remembering
any of their names
your being beautiful belongs
          to nothing
I don’t believe they should
          praise you
but I seem to believe they
          should
somehow let you go

At night the states
and when you go down to
          Washington
witness how perfectly anything
          in particular
sheets of thoughts what a waste
          of sheets at
night. I remember something
          about an
up-to-date theory of time. I
          have my
own white rose for I have
          done
something well but I’m not
          clear
what it is. Weathered, perhaps
          but that’s
never done. What’s done is
          perfection.

At night the states
ride the train to Baltimore
we will try to acknowledge what was
but that’s not the real mirror
          is it? nor
is it empty, or only my eyes
          are
Ride the car home from Washington
          no
they are not. Ride the subway
          home from
Pennsylvania Station. The states
          are blind eyes
stony smooth shut in moon-
          light. My
French is the shape of this
          book
that means I.

At night the states
the 14 pieces. I couldn’t just
walk on by. Why
aren’t they beautiful enough
in a way that does not
          beg to wring
something from a dry (wet)
          something
Call my name

At night the states
making life, not explaining anything
but all the popular songs say call
          my name
oh call my name, and if I call
          it out myself to
you, call mine out instead as our
          poets do
will you still walk on by? I
          have
loved you for so long. You
          died
and on the wind they sang
          your name to me
but you said nothing. Yet you
          said once before
and there it is, there, but it is
          so still.
Oh being alone I call out my
          name
and once you did and do still in
          a way
you do call out your name
to these states whose way is to walk
on by that’s why I write too much

At night the states
whoever you love that’s who you
          love
the difference between chaos and
          star I believe and
in that difference they believed
          in some
funny way but that wasn’t
          what I
I believed that out of this
          fatigue would be
born a light, what is fatigue
there is a man whose face
          changes continually
but I will never, something
          I will
never with regard to it or
          never regard
I will regard yours tomorrow
I will wear purple will I
and call my name

At night the states
you who are alive, you who are dead
when I love you alone all night and
          that is what I do
until I could never write from your
          being enough
I don’t want that trick of making
          it be coaxed from
the words not tonight I want it
          coaxed from
myself but being not that. But I’d
          feel more
comfortable about it being words
          if it
were if that’s what it were for these
          are the
States where what words are true
          are words
Not myself. Montana, Illinois.
          Escondido.

a pain without limits
by spoils of nature
a mind unreasonable

set in an entablature

in the space between
you leaving
and
me
never coming
back

nothing auspicious
here just
synagogue
like
symptoms

an empty urn
turned over
like so
many
tombstones.

help us dear G-d
to keep what ever peace
we
have
frozen in time

until then
little remains
in me.

whispers of
Sainthood
to an outspoken sinner
Ever sinning, ever eager
counsels a thumping

smashed

lightbulb

stuffing a
banana peal
in a glass

like the word -

trumpeting

for example, a grocer on fire - -
(quit giving them the good stuff)

There is only One
God  

the father

And (in Hebrew)
He never saw his children again.

you say these things
as I scan the stars for cheribum

Sunshine rises
Rose
with a pounding
Eraser

Emptied --
Stilled by
cooking bourbon in tall glasses,
Emptied again.

She, however, almost
Falling off her
Chiseled bottom,
Sprang up and said
Oh, but a drink
Left undrunk
Is impolite

A wry wink
A dry hazard
To guess

One can never
Better too much
Courtesy

A little left forward
And the creeps come out

A little less
And we accept
A Creep

Hmm.
Past the forward
Leave in a lurch
The smell of baked clay
A mudslinger's holiday

For an eye
A pyramid

A statue enclosed.
Stuffed in a grotto
A shadowed niche
Ensconced in shadow.

You didn't tell me
I would be left alone

That
You would die
Along the way

There was something I wanted
To offer you

Something larger than

An empty void

Little stories
Do tell

One time

A lit evening rush

A full throttle
Spirit
brush

Holding hands
At strange
Hours
Each
slips
Past
The other

Beholding a dream
An ember flickers
Like
Skipping breaths

Both our lips

Now
Captured
sounds
Seen through
a tunnel

fulminating
time

twenty hours ago
I was a different man

a person who could not
or would not
Know.

It is said that
science is the man

And happy
is he who
Cares not,
Feels not,
Or prays not

for he
will
forever
be

headless,
footless,
and
friendless

dead to the world
You might say

Tell his remains:

we now know
loneliness
can be cured

Welcome me
To your crude levity
O white seminole

Come clean
And
Milk me of mine

The god within me
Like cream on top
Hope to god an angry god

Today I made no alliances
All shattered or broken
smiles turned into sneers
Kidding cuddling
All but burning rain
But new kindnesses
are born
you wait and see

A start of new
before his threshold
Awaits us
Has waited
For
us

I have nothing
For you but
Adulation
(And sweet remembrances before)

Later, after grief
Overtook our glances
Once so filled with joy

Of love, what of it?
If a beast can channel
Its muscularity
Into soft loyalty

Why can't I?

Forever,  whenever
A Painful sincerity
Reaches longing heights

At one end
Someone is
Looking down...

How dreadful
A benign
Cist
Can become

... staring at the other.

People of original intent
Don't always signal
The right way

at first

You think,
oh, yeah, sure
Take a right at the first
Bend

Then straight you go and take
the first bend
on the right.

Missing the bend
Not heading
Right
At
All.

Later,
When you have all but given yourself
Up to the dogs
     (always those mangy scavenging, crooked-legged dogs)

They happen to pass by
And
Point the other way

The way we were suppose to come
In the first place
Had we any conscience

That poem was almost
There

It was so close
It passed me by

Stare as I might
It kept moving
Right in front
Of my eyes

I hit the brakes
But couldn't
stop

The poem?
Who cares
No lives were lost
No rhymes
Like Frost

And not a moment
Too soon

An angel has entered my room.

Children do not follow
But become

A Serious burden
To unthink
And think again
Like a child

Caught between
The reality of being in the world
And interior being

Once thought to be
down and out

I was reborn
Into
Nothing

And again,
I am now reborn

Into a room
Now empty

And you,
You are forever still

Here
And still

I can barely hear
Your melody

A forever pouring into
My dear

And flowing back
Again

Lifting you up
Setting you down

Holding you tight
Never to let you go

Lifting our eyes
Over the waves
Taking a deep breath
Into the ocean
Our hearts contain
All emotion

Lifting her up
Holding you back
Only to find

A helpless

Child

Offering a drowning
bucket
Of things

What my dear
Can we give
That hasn't
offended her
Already?

I should have granted you

Good relations
this one time
On earth

I should have seen it coming
A lifetime ago

But it was
Too soon to call you real

Then I saw you
Walk by

So slow you passed
It was hard to breath

Neath the under-broken
Table

Below the beaten
Hellstorm

She bore two sons
One of fire
The other sun

Both so close to
Burning
The other out

I should have run
To save my life

Always at an end

It would have saved me lot of time
Had I eaten one of you then

Sulfur burns blue
Base and
Depraved
To me its best observed

I did not choose


to see me suffer,

You exact your revenge

on one-sided moral conclusions

Leaving out
The one thing
That could save us

A lesser G-d would destroy
You

A stronger one
Reaches out his hand

The irony,
my dear,
Is
We choose
Not to

Liver
River
Pees.

Open or closed
Closeted or out

A cloistered sound embanks a noun
Static chairs
Helpless stares
Shares space with

Charismatic
Specs

A dog makes a pet
Only if it
Follows you home
And even then
Needs to be let out

People don't realize
The only real sense
Of taste
We have left
Are the churning juices
Being deposited
In our cholera

Write again to a commodity

The comotose of freeze
Written before even you got here

The world may have been invented
By an orange

So sweet
So colorful
**** yet heartless

A man died trying to get it straight.

I partly refuse to write you
As you were

The opening part
Was bitten

Chewed more like
Into little infinities

Until nothing survived
But an underwhelming
Bite mark.

We will never get to see
How good you were

We will only see the title
Of your life

Only foot prints
Will remain

Of all the lost has beens
And rope-a-dopes

Having my edges cut off
By a living monument
Heaving plastic stones
Outward
Toward space.

asserting oneself,
or
self effacement.

to be or not to be
the often quoted
dilemma.

does it count if I have dementia?
Alzheimer's will.

if God is the most important
answer to the most important question
then

I report

there is a gap
between
learning
and knowing

between
experiencing
and learning

between
reality
and

eternity.

Eternity?

isn't that

now?

Happy thoughts

press them into vinyl

don't they deserve
to be embossed
into
something
real?

happier times

that's the stuff of
our parents dreams

we remember
maybe
how we wanted
to
be

different than
what we
are now.

surely,

a golden
disk
has
played.

the last gasp
asper coin
of the night

to wit
no one comes to mind

I once had a notion
to remake
the
world

bit by bit

in my own image
of course

but who else can
save it?

so
fast
its
undoing

beyond
finding
an
end

what else
can
be
hoped
for

but a trident's bindng spear.

Dia says,
Kick rocks
so,
f'y'all.

and Isaac,
complains
nada
solo
as
usual.

(still I like who he follows)

people
living off
other people
is a another version
of
send in the clowns.  

please don't get me wrong.

I stand on the shoulders of
Tijuana,
Monterrey
and
Coatlicue

hey
at least Coatl'
will
tell you
like
it
was.

the rest?
don't even bother

you are a release
unto my thoughts
of thinking

to non being
too benign

our heads nod
to our chests
in
supplication

in embarrassment
in ignorance.

you are a mist
of clouds
boyued
in a queue
of
unending
ripples
of
dread.

come now
into the open
so we can see
you

for you
are
awe.

pitter patter
oft night
breeze

rain
pelts
the screen
of a tablature

a little
scream

or whimper
because now he whimpers
in his sleep.

a little further
down
the
neck

and he
jumps
off
the
table.

a person could write
a thousand poems

and still
not be read

until one fine day
a Reaper of thoughts
feelings and signs

falls deeply
deeply,
into
slumber.

and when
holding
that chalice
of light
and blood

taketh unto
his breath
the utmost
god almighty
   and sighs,

'to be your beloved
what mighteth
not die?'

you said something
but
I did not hear you

or

I wasn't really
listening

to be or not to be
is not a question
but more the answer

I am
I'm not
eternity

blank into blank
forgive
me.

If I said,
verily unto you there is only God
would you believe me?

knowing you,
you would scoff
or worse
turn away.

if in turn,
rain fell,

(the sound that
befalls
all
tears),

and ran
away
with
your
life

would you believe me then?

Meher Baba has said He has not come to teach but to awaken mankind to the reality of God.   Only God exists.   Meher Baba has said He is God in Human form.  My understanding of what Meher Baba has said is God descends in the human form age after age to give a push to further man's consciousness, that man and God are One.  God has never left us, though the role of the Christ, the Avatar, God in human form, comes time and time again, the most notable, the most revered ones are known as Ram, Krishna, Noah, Abraham, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad and, in this present incarnation, Meher Baba.  One does not have to give up his or her love of Jesus as savior, Jesus is Lord and He has come again and will come again, until mankind leaves all his material wants and desires and follows Him, Christ, as Jesus the Christ.  When we follow Jesus wholeheartedly, 100%, then there are no divisions, no divisiveness, and in my opinion, no bible, because Jesus was lawless in that He makes law. He is God in human form and no religion can capture who He really is.  Only God is.

Genesis says
you will be forgotten

give up
you
temporary
nothings

dotting
a quarry of immense
emptiness

many upon a person's prayers
too often quoted

least begotten
a son
forgotten
when he comes back

for He has.

AD.

His name is new
the message renewed
Love God
with all one's might

forget the world
but not the duties

the world,
that
forever forgets
who we are.

bright
like
a child's song

hopeful
like
an untouched beach

mindful
like
a fallen
son

a son behind
me
a son
besides me

when you come back
will you
fall before me
like
abraham?

who can write on
an open plain


as long as
one can see

a vision would appear
where no horizon exists

looking as far as
one eye sees
squinting
in the sun

pitchwhite.
leaving
no room
for doubt

about
thirst.

just waiting to move forward
when
the past gets in the way

you
stop.

the last time
He was with us,
was He listening then?

the time when I said
‘help is on the way’
were you helping?

Later after anger
it pleased me
to be pleasing to you
when those
who, being foreign,
would not care.

but they didn’t know

know me
or any of us

When we,
the sigher's
sighing
in an open vat
with an unpleasant
and ferocious
appetite

and they, the doer's,
makers, breakers and goons

hatch an escape

thence, Isaac,
the exodus will happen

just like that time
four thousand
grains of sand
ago.

You get what you deserve

Hell yeah,

You Greek Meatball.

Can anyone tell how tall I am
how old am I

The first principle is zero.

Flambue roll.

Double stroke open.

is there something we can connect on?

to those souls
who's only purpose
is to
make other people
their slaves

be ******.

may the force of evil
that once ruled the worlds
keep silent.

may the voice of love prevail
to the tiniest degree
fortifying
all mercy
beyond
limitation

alah, alaha, ahuramazda,
god.

help us all to love

you
beyond
our
understanding
of
you

popcorn kernel on the carpet green

bored,
hapless feelings
on a cardboard screen
a scented card to mom

like

hopeless victims

listless

dragging their
knees
in prayer

pleading
to God
who knows
not where.

I am not sorry for what has been done
double peddle drum

I am not your fire
to put out

my only disinfected wish
was sincerity

I have none

midnight whims

forever rushed

come follow me!

have you let go
without us  
noticing

without
noticing
us?

the stillness
of nights

above evergreens
atop a cranberry bush
a cedar or pine
broken apart
into
an eternal stream
of consciousness,
mine!

how
green
how eternal
she
was

and
when she comes back
-- we will again have and
be held

but with such dry air
are we able to
wait?

when she does come
it will be
an
undivided,
  winged,
     victory.

if one person
would write
a poem,
the poem
the poem of poems

the peoples poem
for the people of the earth
and it would include odes to the wealthy,
to royalty,
to the aristocracy too

and it would be written by a scholar,
a learned soul, who through his or her labors and connections
had come from the east and made a way to the west

the poor would be mentioned as
is proper
in due time, may it be added, for the poor shall be last, but in due time.

and this, so-called poem of poems shall be heralded, and spoken in the cities, on the park benches, quoted by politicians, priests and sung at temple.

and 100 years hence, this poem of poems will be found buried under a thousand foot mountain, burrowed in a cave in script that neither a man nor woman ever will read.