the same kind of rainclouds
roll in from the springtime horizon, to spread life,
here, where you are reading this poem
and there, most every other place on this globe
imagine that: we all live under the same kind of sky

the wise man was asked:
“do we, as men, follow your words and reach nirvana?”
“but for the raw material, this would be so”, was his reply


there is a ghost hovering above me at all times
youth kept him at bay; old age increases his presence
he hangs like a jellyfish alight in the air
wide eyes dark spaces mystery
a span of some sort

2032

that thing strapped to my leg
is an artificial heart
my digital liver fits nicely
in what looks like a backpack
peristaltic action for digestion:
a mini quantum dot siphon
kidneys are actually implanted
nano graphene filters in the blood

I am a bionic man because I can afford it
but I am losing my brain
there is no replacement
despite computing prowess that worries the gods
there is no substitute for a soul
the Tao of this universe is irony only
and now the immortality of my body
horrifies my every thought
as the fluids pump
and the heart moves
but cannot beat

there was a long trailer filled
with film reels the size of automobile tires
sitting in racks
it was my job to drive the truck pulling the trailer
through a convenience store parking lot
that was vaguely recognized
I felt confident that I could handle the job
and spoke to some other ghosts
concerning the details
abruptly shifted to changing my cloths
in an acquaintance’s home
in a wide open shower area that had fixtures of wood
that hung like closet hangers
on the tiled wall of the shower
there were sayings and quotes
written by other people using sharpie pens
that were stuck to the walls
I was carrying on a conversation
with the ghosts in the adjoining bedroom
one older, recognizable, sitting on the bed
two others, children, accepting a cynical lecture
from the older ghost
I felt the strong desire to add a quote to the walls
that sense of wanting to be heard
very similar to my desires in a awakened state
I thought and thought ******* the wisdom words
I should leave and came up with
‘’All thinking is exaggeration’’ but the sharpie pen
I chose, would not work on the tiled wall and I gave up
to enter the bedroom and listen to the lecture
with the other ghosts
there was a swirling understanding and then I awoke

six pale ales Indian
swim now in me blood
smiling ideas
happy bones
blanched organs
a deep appreciate
and flavor
oh what a flavor

Darwin at Work
where you send
the boys with the best eyesight
out to be
killed
in wars

I put down the book for three, maybe four days, tops
when I walked by the dog eared leafs
then I took myself by surprise
by questioning myself
don’t forget your literary life
so very personal
so very important
William Blake
swirling tigers and wide eyed beasts
and the spacious view of matters
I force myself to read the Great Masters
return rewarded

when a possibility becomes real in the fullest sense
potential goes out the window real fast
motion movement requires an explanation
there is a conflict within the meaning of most words
infinity exists in the figures awaiting sculpt in Carrara
perfection in meditation of myself contemplating
immaterial substance
done or not done, it is all that it seems