Over fitting curves
to Noise. There's a drought in Puerto
Rico and Los Angeles.

Water from the Rio La
Plata is low and wow is Sierra
in her young days,
with full snowy capped
*****.

How the drooling Mangos
all crowd her on a Carnival Cruise
-- a blinding which Sun?

Somewhere even in the noise of Umma
crying, even along a low river gurgle,
a yowling true love
Signal is found. Maybe.

Probabilistically.

Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe.  Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.

I ask for direction but only the spirit knows,
the semantic is lost in one ritual or another subroutine.
We breath in violable biology to voice a movement
that joins u to me and together we point there,
somewhere without realizing that I consciously exhale.
A relaxed breath in but two ways out.

There is no committee nor panel of experts,
endless discussions, of morality of us all;
There is only me deciding how to exhale,
which way to breath out.
There is no wrong or right, only the slow,
controlled, submissive, submission vowels
or short, percussive consonants full of sound
and fury signifying the falling
golf *****, scattered on off-target greens,
a lawn of flamed bogeys.

A brief pause in silence aftermath, memories
of honored and vicious executioners
before I pick up the next eddie current,
the next randori in forgotten volume,
in brownian space, in distance maai,
in movements unthinkingly remembered.

... the kingdom of heaven is an internet cast into humanity's lake to catch all the colored fishes. When full of complexity, the investment fishermen pulls it to safe harbor. Then sitting down, they bin the good ones, and throw errors for bad. This is how it will be at the end of the Age of Pisces. The ghosts in the machine will come and cluster the good bins into productive castes, and collect all the garbage, permanently deleting time in a blazing shredder where there will be weeping at airports and gnashing of teeth.

There's an elegance
to the math

but

it's too complicated for
us to understand much less
make a career of writing
ring looped code
or father toddling

equations.

At best, we fancy Newtonian
relationships,

common sense ones that any 17
century young Romanticist
would Realize

The faster we accelerate into Love the greater
the Force of our relationship
and the Mass of our egos multiply the effect

A Love in motion stays in motion

If only we live in vacuums

our fairy tale would never end
and the forever after is locked,
safe behind Castle doors

But our stories are more like Grimm Tales

Impulse
forces of liberated Egos
change the trajectory
of our real

love.

Random white cue *****
bounce us into a side pocket.

And who's to know?

Are the cul-de-sacs
any worse than
landing in an odd corner,
bunched in with only
a stripped
or solid ball?

At least we didn't scratch
against some misshapen Black
eight

Forever

For every birth, a passing
For ever passing time
A birthday

Compressing my heart
Compressing indigo
interlaced with green
Happiness

We all have our Grand
Mothers - bookends gone
because our stories r neverending

Yesterday I danced
under the first quarter Moon
20241010

Monday, I'll be a pallbearer
again bearing witness
2 Jedi grace in parting
20241014

And in the mourning
In the early day light of night
I won't forget
20241015

Bye Thursdays, I'll be with she
A moment glowing in the dark
under a Hunter's Moon
20241017

9 minutes ago

A son of a Sun
we of light
hoping after
warm change
bathe here
in measured persistence
moving masses
of resonating germs
dawn's gun
our only voice

Do you like this painting by Friedrich?
YES or NO,
A binary one or zero answer please,
true or false.

I like recognized neural solutions
posed to logistically regressed ideas.

Do you like the color
BLUE or YELLOW?

YES, I did like GREEN,
so slender and bright
faced in her youth.

We were adolescents with too many connections
And maybe not enough pruning.
Or maybe we were just mixed and mash-up,
media saturated?

What do you think?
Did you lust for GREEN too?
YES or NO, true or false.

And now, are we adults or autistic kids?

We withdraw, refuse to recognize faces,
limit human touch because it's all
too overwhelming-- reduced to visual cats,
difficult to herd by old Hands
and cooperative Rules.

We wanderer above the Cloud
seeing answers from a Fog of Random data.
Old world romantics, Greenhorns
in the brave new world of hard logic
and emotional detachment.

If we randomly assign
BLUE = false, YELLOW = true, and GREEN = lust;
logic tells us false AND true must equal false.

A novel recognition that sometimes when
BLUE mixes with YELLOW, we are again BLUE!

By sheer force of color faith
and romantic human sensibility,
we mix falsehood with truth
to arrive at what we desire.

In our blue hearts, and yellow skin
we still green after romance.

A stapel river flows in Hyena
pack,
rivulets of laughing
data.

Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted
band.

From arterial ort to capillary
place
respires a quantal
love.

Quid non quo
flows,
trickling down in plain
flat,
in crevice crag, filling just
enough.

Fresh down to Mexican
border
town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning
delta,
it breezes meta confidence within six
Sigma.

Zone of Transition
Cortical interneurons before
Their tangential invasion

Or gabaergic Purkinje
Amassing Armada before
Their radial Normandy

I was never officer
Material
Maybe I'm a gentle
Man

A Lone wolf without a cub
A Vagabond fantasy

A black and white Zatoichi
Transmogrified 2
A colorful toxic Hanzo
2 masculinity

Ah.

There's the rub

A middle path
Neither right nor left
But definitely dexterous and sinister

A Babel tower er^ct
In our lingual babbel

Or a gradient descent
With our Fel*rian Queen

Whatever.

A censored Blackhawk down
Or Phoenix propaganda rising

We don't really matter
In our Bird Clan cl^m@x

8 minutes ago

As close letting
to bending bones
broken,

As wide setting
so mending minds
rhyme,

As We of age,
collateral children
in time will rage

In strapless grown,
in dead damage
razed by wings flown.

We say with Glee to each other
"you're gonna miss me when I'm
gone", tap, tapping a hollow,
rhythmic heart beat tune we all
can dance 2.

Blue songs -- heart break, and heart
make -- comforting white
noise from a TV left
on because we need company
while shuffling about our
widowed empty nest.

Is the truth always sad or
does it make us angry?

The clinical diagnosis is no one
will remember when I'm gone.

There'll be no shrine in a living
room reminding us
of Vietnamese grave sites
where my father's, his
father's, my uncle's, and my cousin's
names are written.

All the boy's names are forgotten.

Modern girls need closure, shutting
the door to past boys
because it hurts too much
when the shoe is on the wrong
foot.

We wonder which gender
neutral Gloria will survive,
and which stupid
lock should have been changed,
and which door must close
forever, forgotten.

Maybe the truth does set
us free, but we don't realize
it yet and still comes back to
haunted houses,
spending ghost money from
a displaced parent's love wallet.

It's October 25 for David
and the 3rd of August for me we
both had always known
that graduate school will be
the best of times as David
reads Auden, Freud and
Lionel Trilling who? while we
read mysteries about NFAT, Fos
and Jun who? we
both imagine a wondrous future with dolphins
in Space and Uplifting worlds we
had so much time
to binge and watch
Netflix being born
as DVDs through the mail before streaming consciousness
remembers our Dads taking us to see
the Yankees lose
or buy comic books we
lend out to friends
not realizing we
haven't asked them
to please take great care of our
small instance of the Love class

In twilight of cloudy morning
I look unglassed into a mirror
and sight nearly the old
face that use to be

In reflective hours of still
young morning
I listen for passing echos
from cars and passengers on
their Work way that will be

In greying silver of late morning
Summer I feel expire
as the class of 2020
arrives at Harvard
wondering want can be

Is it time for the earth to move yet?
I've waited 40+ years: watching,
hoping, and hearing.
Wind's whisper, roaring
and rustling by my side;
brushing, fanning  
Fire's crackle, popping
pool of spilt blood,
soon cleansed away;
Water's cool trickling
rain, refreshed, turning
into torrents down
worn brown fissures,
broken etches arching
back to the origin,
the granite faced dirt.

Is it time for Mountain to move still?
If I'm lucky I have 40 more,
if not maybe 20, or blind
luck may rob me tomorrow.
Is it time to Move? Will I be
lucky enough to tremble
at new loosing ground.

Moving, we are all in transit
stops, packing things into boxes,
thinking about where now
feeling tugs from there then.

Bubble-wrapped Indeed.
com, searching for Jobs
as we pack traces
because people move on
refusing plastic stasis.

It's really happening.
The leftover boxes
from the last moves
are being filled up again.

Enigmatic handwriting
across shipping tape, remnants
from another script
being lost in translation, somehow
scrawled on the wall, understood
and turned meaningless
as paper, shirt, and souvenir
change places,
coalescing in another box
or completely vanishing
behind a dividing line.

It's time to say goodbye
to so many things.
Long goodbyes,
thru work days
and youthful nights
when all added up,
too short to catch
my breath.

My breakfast, my
vilifying to build internal
cohesion, moving in sync--
to actuate what?
Stylized, synchronized violence
resolves vanilla limits--
resources, rarity
barter, banter
to rectify an austere
child in a hood.
Stylized, synchronized violence
corporal spankings--
to hold a center
doing, doping--
to push our child
even though she is not better
than my non-existent
one.
We are too busy
hustling, hating--
building, breaking
Stylizing our grotto
with shadows on wall,
ghosts in grime,
reminders of death
and dying
<Didn’t know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective.>

My existence Transparent
Yellow perch precariously half eaten
On ledgers of our Life
Win/Lost columns
Love as defeat
and Possession as Victory
or a slab
underneath which
Death sums up

sand falling through
tightly laced
corset

can only know
neoprene kisses
purple from asphyxiation

my kefir spurts
sour oats
to the dry wind

never finding
spreaded parchment
smiling

never inking
sailor's story come
homely

Like the day
she was dark

no color
Like the night
dawning

no darker
Like ink flowing

no whiter
Like a rooster comb
stain on ***** sand

no deader
Like deepening
purple washing
a ****'s crow
into bleached
seas

no
she was

Cancer takes us to dinner
then ghosts me never
calling again

The anger, sadness
and disappointment
metastasizes to every
node of our social
network

In desperation we rip
me out leaving wires
frayed

Eventually, new growth cones
form and try again to connect me
with we but perhaps the two
scared ends have given up
hope

And the fibers connecting us
will fade in a slow Wallerian
walt

Cancer will never know
and never cared

There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****,
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.

My hour on the stage half dun
Gone are days of limerick fun
Gone green dragon flying as Lark
Remembering ex-marine snark

In Hollywood bar, his heart trice
Failed, still caring drove to hospice
There, where days laid he on just one leg
Amputated cries, pain dared beg.

Yet after death lurked a grin,
A lark phone call to next of kin.
Frank doctor blind to ****** pun
Irate, berate to unkind son,
Spoke he with clenched fist did shook,
Asking who laments father cook.

what the **** is a Nightingale I
know its a bird I
know there Florence Nightingale
and in my abstract mind I
see a bird of the night
sitting upon the chest of my
sick child

she's not plucking her
eyes for food instead
she's giving her Dark
magic from our book

she's nursing Midnight's Children
with kisses as tender
as an obsidian blade
shaving pubescent legs
to a sharp sheen
ready to cut morning's
edge with ebony rage

What is the Sparrow to me
or I to Spared sorrow be?

They like we dart
in visual space
trying not to ****
from exertive Race!

We fly on Change
loose jangling face.

Venom eyes range
with furtive cover
for succulent dress
to stripped under
talon's caress.

When the brothers K. are in
a knife fight in
their own house, we
tend to stay away.

But what if
their struggles spills,
knocking over A. lamp?
A jinn smoke signals the sky,
and a fire catches, spills.

These are row houses, built
side-by-side with adjacent thin walls
and a shared inner courtyard.

Are we ready to douse
the flames? Can we risk
the community?

In the end, we bury
chard remains, blacken flesh
because the only thing left
will be chipped bone,
and broken blade.

We bandage
an orphaned Daughter,
and steady the vacant stare
of a wobbly Son.

There is nothing we can do
for the Brothers k. It's too late
to separate them now.

Maybe if we give them guns,
the killing suicide will be faster
this thing over easier,
and the Community
razed sooner.

No. I don't need Mom's
accusatory glances, nor
Father's displaced fury.

I am morally bankrupted
and save only the house
because the family is messy,
and cheap like all families.

For Gwendolyn Brooks

And with that 2023
has slid into we

Bound in leather
or some new polymer

Alloys coaxed together
Like Master and server

We Olde Tymers
We Neu! Rhymers

Fashion updaters
Swift haters

What weird magic
this that binds tragic

sado to majestic maso
a Quanto entanglo

In rusty romp we fumble
as dream walls crumble

A Sun begs for mercy
A Flower forgives

Strange entanglements
Mixing emerging flavors

I wanted to kiss
her knee-- a sharp
edged, angular,
comic book, superwomen
clean cut, streamlined
down to tapered calf,
to pointing toe-type knee.
Hers wasn't a square
worker's padded joint
for kneeling down.
Under sheet and pillow
I once found it
giggling with spastic
warnings!
Her knee was ticklish!
My heart never did
smooch her there,
fearing some reflexive,
paroxysmal laughter
would kick me in mouth.
Ouch. No kisses on the knee.

Tree of proto-monkeys,
brand and banded under Monkey King,
so clever, so adaptive
in substance and doing -
mushrooming in variants:
lemurs, monkeys old and new,
orangutans, gorillas, chimps,
and one big bushy brood
of extincted ***** brothers and you.

Trekking upright into dale,
valleys and over hills too
sore in feet to image
dragging a knuckle or two.

Scavengers making way,
scanning for patterns in
food moving or not,
adaptive doing from fin
to opposable rock.

This is what I do
even when she
can't remember me

even when we
can't remember she

Like Mork
From Ork

Living in reverse time
Back into a child's rhyme

I will be there
And u will be fair

A meal at the last

14 hours ago
♫Astrud Gilberto
Água de Beber

Tapestries have 2 dimensions.

But threads have 3 and move with Time-- ticking away the moments that make... A dull day?

Mrs. Dalloway's hours were never such.

Tiny string spinning our own time.
Hands links in many colors AND flavors
To form threads, linear vectors
To weave our observed flatness
Dun face Laura's portrait
Or Dorian pictured fate?

I love you so much it hurts
I hate you so much it burns

I guess no matter where we turn
There is Dharma, robotic steel
neither feeling or dying

To suffer fools--
patient.
To see you--
truly.
To be--
freely
confined
watched--
from supermax panopticon.
patient.

I'm here at Kaiser again

Her hands are bruised
Her arms too where the IV needles are

The Last Rites this morning
and intubation last night

She, in her strength
and us, in our technology
give time

Time for long goodbyes
Amore ciao

A million years of socializing
make it hard to let go

The Tigers come?
It was quicker
No remnants

Leave her on the Trail?
Wolves come
Vultures clean

We were a different culture then
We are a new solution now

Osmolality and salt
drips to keep the pulse

No pressure drop
No karmic revenge

There's time enough to say bye
In time, we'll meet again
in time
in green dreams

They've started the morphine
They've stopped management

She's passed.

Her heart stopped
Ours fluttered

It is 10:55AM, Wednesday 2024

Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******,
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.

My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.

He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.

On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.

He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.

To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.

Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:

"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.

Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.

I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.

My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.

I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"

There was the time I waited for a phone call,
and it came and rang.
There was the time I talked on the phone for hours,
and was happy.
There was the time I got annoyed at all the phone calls.
I just wanted to work.
There was the time I looked into the future,
and made appointments for other phone calls.
There was the time when the phone calls hesitantly stopped,
and I left it off, not hooked.
There was the time I waited for a phone call.

Had a father name Zeus
One day Jane's Addiction
woke up and found my daddy
gone

Had another mother name Mary
One day brothers
Peter and Paul
read her suicide note

She'd loaded her pockets
with stones, waded
downstream in indigo
mood.

They named me Mo
Each day we
dog Clan follow
Jo scavenging
Eden.

We've left a garden
to build forts
with discarded sofas
and hurl play dirt
and nip our throats
in mock death.

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Always you
(2)         (1)
Sempre tu
(2)         (1)
Immer du
(2)         (1)

The sport of it; the game
If you want it, fight for it
Young "man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you" are
Fifty "four and there's so much more"!

An old dog willing to learn new tricks

New tricks on the Street?
Trick-or-treat ask for the Sweet?

Was the Season of the Sticks a failure
because we didn't win the final game?

Coaches say happiness is in the struggle
        or was it suffering?
Falling in love is insufferable

Monks and pirates say life is suffering
        or was it pain Highnest!
"anyone who says differently, is selling something"

New tricks to learn!

Michael Jordan hustled tricks
for six seasons before he had his first child!
Were those six childless years failures?

Our therapist would say keeping  
our eyes on the prize is good:
Goals help us improve, help us find happiness, help us embrace
the Absurd Movable Feast of P^ssy

Sempre tu sounds hollow
like a God chortle -- lacy mirth in
high heels; s^xy but not malicious
She never is

Immer du feels dry
like flatten dimensions of curved
hips and stiff swords reduced
to moisten bints lobbing scimitars

Me andyou
(1)         (2)
You andme
(1)         (2)

Reduced happiness?

This is the life I was promised
This is the life I will take

It's quiet except for the humming
of the machines.

Do we call them machines or instruments?
Do they do or do they measure?

They're little helpers who organize
thoughts and time, blocking
hours with workers, friends and
family.

A list manager of sorts.
It's easy -- something like:
>Monday, 5:00 pm - family.Christine
or
>Tuesday, 12:00 pm - friend.Giorgia

And when we miss an appointment
our helpers are fire-walled
from disappointment, sorrow
and lost.

They stay functional.

It's easy for their electronic hands
to <strikeout>
meetings held in an hour
past.

-- something like:
>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad
to
<strikeout>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad </strikeout>

-- something like:
>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt
to
<strikeout>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt </strikeout>

It's done-- changed from a living one to a final zero,
binary absolution.

Our stream continues,
released from obligations
that I hold tight
still.

We're not Protocol Droids.
We feel Ghosts in the Machine.
We see Apparitions in the Rituals,
and Sprites in the Protocols
running through our network
still.

There's no clemency for us.

For me we it
comes realizing later
that Chris Cornell is gone
same as Dad but different still
we have our Garden
of Sound with weeds sprouting against
the grim Cutter hoping
for a missed experienced

Maybe the refugee's trauma
have dried all the tears on
lonely crowded airfields
of a long ago Vietnam seeding
salt from a Grandmother, mother,
father, aunts and uncles,
paladins in our child eye dry
because of the stampeding Thestrals
we shouldn't see

And now almost 50 we know
better the slings and arrowheads
of fortune the calcifying currency
souls make by roughing the round edges
of damning tears scattered like petals
over littered cigarettes killing
us softly because they've metastasized
from intellectualized Lung ****
to a flowering carcinoma

We dream of flying cars that never come.
Instead, warring Mars become another mining
town, if we will remember, if we have Total Recall.

Again, and again on disparate planets
They desparates arrive with risk, cuz
who else would take such dangers for so little?
Only Miner ****** with no good options
Only eager John's digging for gold
but reaping meager Death profits.

We here, at Home
depend on them, out There.

We corporate Heads
harvest gold
Depend on Hearts
to bind risk and takers.

We here, in Comfort
numb to the toxic holes
left scattered with dead
Red Ghost towns.

I contemplated a plan on freedom's floor.
I'm not a fugitive from fun.
But a brother like me begun -- is just another one.
Public persona number four!

<quote>
I bought a red bra, she said.
I knew you'd like it.
The only problem was I didn't
have a red blouse to wear with it.
...
<quote />