Life is a brush fire... dreaming.
A penumbra of the void.
Life is where God left His hammer.
A black pearl on black sand.
The one with the blue heart
and the mad men.
Life is thin air made flesh; the pinnacle of divinity-
with a blunt tip.

Days are optional. Nights are mandatory.

That's Life -
Deep down, where we live
in the Future every moment.
Life is a sad
piece.

Wince
at the sun for a nickel,
and that's almost what it feels like
To believe in your soul
but not your eyes.
Life is all
around
you.

A field of poppies
and prank calls.
A flood of Harmonies
alluding
to your
Truth.

That you have no idea
How to play your
instrument -
Is the funny
part.

That it All seems to work.... sheer genius

We are Alive,
and that
Is the pivotal intent
of the Prime
Mover.
The Lucid Grace that All Creation, Made.
A Reflex of an Infinitely Loving
Conundrum -

We are the Children
of a Living Mystery...
from clay,
say some.

But know this.

[ Life is a gift that keeps on Dying ]

and will do it for nothing....  

if you let it.


Life is a Dreaming Cause, A Sleeping Crusade;
Tossed out of Heaven's bed
Into The Cavernous Crib With The Milky Way Mobile
Spiraling in Entropy... Life looks up.
And Life looks down,
With your
eyes.

We are the null set, and the set of all possible sets.
We are the Premise that inspires Love to magnify.
That Lens between the Sun and the Ant
Is your Soul.

Life is not -
exactly.
And Death's a
lazy-Susan.
And Nothingness
is poetry
that bleeds a
moon to
ruin... as high
above -
stars are sliding
fortunes into
cookies
and everywhere
our banquet -

sprawls.

hello ? are you there ? i can hear you breathing sooooo....

here goes.

Spring is when the flowers retch
and we bow our heads. we dread what any ostrich might  dread
and carry On.
but On like
Off.

you keep the furniture but i'll keeeeeeeep the memories.
and thank you for that.
they ****
but you might come by wisdom.
the serpent always lies with truth
and you would be wise
to know the difference
at the County Fair.

just saying

knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but  Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.

knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.

sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****.

i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.

He is not so drunk after all, the bars have closed, the streetlights glow orange above the sidewalks, a man is staggering towards the corner, swinging like a desperate orangutan from post to post on the iron gates that line the front porches, his shoes untied, he is mumbling, he is incoherent, he is wearing his finest shirt, I understand his every word

Without question
my favorite instrument
would have to be my
electronic Brother typewriter
The chattering of the keys
and the punching of letters
become the melody
of whatever I'm feeling
whether it comes
fast and furious
or slow and pensive
it always knows
what I'm trying to say
and don't get me wrong
I love a good six string
and ivory and ebony keys
may equate to beauty
but they don't compare
to my instrument
It's ancestors graced
by some of the greatest players
to walk this earth
complete with a handle
so that I never have to leave it behind
to me,
there is no music sweeter
than the stories which erupt
from my favorite instrument