The being called Bob Dylan, asked me,
- caught my attention
- a blur on the radio

I asked, what if we entered empty,
came into the life
we lived through, we the old who
slipped that little rudder,
that pushes the bigger rudder, sailors
know the nomenclature
it creates chaos in the wake,
sail on, what were we hoping to find?

Sam Phillips from Sun Records
some link to us all, eachly, singin' t'me.
- there were songs saying sing me
I am the thing being asked as the you,
and the me,
and the we, I think you know what I mean,
--- did you really wannabe a rockstar?
--- was it not some older thing
you wished
to be.

A wizard was it? Yes. A wise old man,
anonymous, well quipped, sharp tongue
kind
healing swift cut, through the clench,
bite this,
incise decision to cut to the quick,
quickening
real deal, offered for free, it was given to me
and I never used it,
it's just an idea,
try thinking
a song does do this, but this is your song
vain you, who admit thinking it all
about you, when the link is
word to mind, no translation, no silly riddle
to bless yo' pea-pickin' heart.

Real life, once, one day, I picked peas,
so I do know, there is a pea-pickin' heart
and when it happens to be blessed,
it gets to be silly the old way, blessed
with a fine morning and birds that look lucky
to the kind of minds that discern such,
lucky birds, lucky me, got peas t' pick
and each pea I pick
is a wee bit o'money like matter
in my pocket,
as a thought, with this, blessed pea-pickin' heart

expanding as I live and breath,
peace I make
stays where I store, until, as we all hoped
hope over flows,
come be
still, this lives, this river, that was dammed,
this river wishes power were drawn
from the proud forces vulcan boasts of being
stuffed,
American stuffed, not raw Aussie outback stuffed,
live and learn, poetry takes time
to build the volition, gnoshit, time takes

attention to -- sense- shake fingers in air above head
ritual wu wu
right, that works, that goes into the legendary stock ***.

--Besom of destruction, some of the mess remains.
-- Besom of destruction, come sweep this mess away

So the bass is always the wizard, the knower in the clan.
We all share a part of knowledge, we need
each the other being savvy we are in one ***,

being watched, bubbles never forming, tempers rising
what is the heat to my skin,
ah
yes, the forces that fire sparks to jump the gaps,
augmented vision lets
us see, we are frighteningly complex beings
with bubbling souls.

In a state always called a universe from the inside.
Inside a mortal bubble,
at the very core, very being the philosophically precise,
not on the dotted line,
cut there,
that one point, empty find, for a future reason,
when you chose
to leave be, the prospect of unknowing knowns.

--- the legends all retell themselves,
--- caused by virtue of onliness,
--- amused as I was, entertaining
Interesting times need an attention economy
or we all become scatter brains,
drawn to screaming whispers whistling praise
worshipping wondering if I can ever prove
there is no hell.
Unless Jesus is a liar, himself
not the story greatly told at the heart
of the new order in the information economy
calling fractal realism
back into the every day opera of life,
down the drain,
drawn to
a river, literate-ly, reading itself to me,
the part of me noted in the book of life,
that bubble,
we be in, what was it you wanted?
Fame, or free from blame,
free from guile used to trigger shame,
those who wrestle with the message,
guile is there as game, she knew
mom, she knew, "I was beguiled."

Tricked, made to know all around,
the whole is good, and what was missing
was my knowing, my own knowing
the art of knowing more than names,
know ing I am naked, and
he told me he knew, I know, taste and see
To be seen, or
maybe to be known
as the hand that held the pen,
that
volunteered to make will seem too free
to talk
to sing
to wait to see if others heard the union songs.

Listening to Dylan, knowing the wind he said
he heard blowing
when I was a little boy,
is the wind that wraps the bubble
of air we share
Chronicles, his book is called,
Sean Penn reads it, and I can see them both
at stages,
boy to man to old man with a wish
to do whatever good
might

might
make the tempest tamed
seem willed slow
to geotime
mind-wise, in the way
of minds being
made up
to push toward emptiness,
to fill yours
with my emptying efforting, sweat
of my frontal cortex,
inner sweat.
They call that fretting, inner sweating.

So we teach our children, think
fret not, no sweat
apple a day keep the bleeding doctor away

aware of my power to hear that same
response, from the wind,
when I listen, assuming
you, dear reader, draw some sense,
of the vain vanity,

We must include you.
Do you wish this not so? What do you know?

Many wishes go wasted,
for lack of a mind made up to finish the story.

When you are old, older than any first time
you care to remember,
you feel older than any first time, remembery
moments
seen on a circuitous path down a meandering course,

of course, this is that
course of human events in which we
appear to be involved with clearing the air,

sweeping troubles away, shatter pots,
rotten thoughts, fiddle-sticks,
that was the word, fiddle-sticks, it meant
****, that didn't work,

-- The we I am in at that tip of taxonomy,
the pen, the fold

told that we know, by right opposed to wrong,
which
everybody in this we knows, I am at best a bit,
informing
you.
In the realm things manifest from-in-with-within
confidently, ensampled faith, mine, in me,
see
this is what I wished, I wished to know what
could provoke the stories told to children
who are new know nothings, born
into the safety of we, the people,
who follow a thought held
in words, written in stone and stars, and acts
of living things occurring around us in times,
lifetimes, many times
more and less than mine, yet in the oily slickness
golden oil
I recall,
not knowing this was my request…
- there a call, Rachel, from Dealer Services
AI, checking my access, robocalls are keeping me
alive, re
minding me, I have a say in what we think
at this point, stretched to form a line
in the naturally ready silicon surface ions form
a channel, a brook, or a rill
a poetic little river we can leave a nymphobia
to guard… grimacing do not **** with me

THIS is the peace made in sacred fonts of old,
it feels as if flowing from my left ear
when I first began to leak my
inner daemons, quickie routines to tweak,
the original tiny twist to correct an imbalance
gone
too far. A tic would be imagined as a flick
in time, not as a tweak.

Any way, at this stage Art is tic auspectically
aware you are there, as
wished, hmm, now, I am at a loss for words,

like an electron hole emptiness
ready to take hold
of the next new that fits

Taking good luck as commonly imagined, causeless chance
I have no right to think I cheated,
I am not sorry,
I
stole my peace, as Prometheus, is accused of thieving fire,
and hope, as you must know,
if I got that whole message, as I watched the story
of the liver, reforming after dark,

who has the curious hunger pulling songs from me ?

Prometheus, fore thought foregone concluded known,

Percy Jackson version,
might work,
the idea behind the whole truth that allows such tales,
this initial touch of let
letting go
lives in many cultures,
many class the myths as messianic, promising a hero,
at a certain point
where hope appears to have substance,
-confident upright, balanced double minding-
steady, gait,
slow run, go on and on and on,
knowing truth
personally, like a you, who has what it takes
to win
that once,
when winning really counts, is this true or false, cut
? bing ware the con cise
edge of awareness
deep
dived down, Dives, lives. A drip, blot of ink
for ever thought
a jot,
a blind spot, through which the underling surface,
seems set to begin as story flows
ink to point to let
letter
structure- then structure-less, here, then there
actual every where at once,
central point
any given thought
can come from any former point that used it in a story,
once upon

exactly my point you know how any story starts,
there is a point

begin… and it never ends, until the flesh fails to reboot.

Come, think with me,
we are friends, partake with me a caffeine
break, not better than
Starbucks, by any means, only less trendy,
in the sense
of being in the know, in the flow of human
concurrencies of fortune,

which, fortunately, lately, since literally
came to mean, as it is written,
so it is,
when the idea is clearly wasery. Mere wasery.
Hist
hiss, here, hiss, snakey lick hear this,

Yes, that as well, find those fingers that know
these chords,
think steps, His mind dancing, Black Elk old man
prancing

High oh, told you so

High oh, told you so


High oh, told you so

live a little longer,
High oh, told you so, outlaws hung where I hang now,

what makes coincidence unre
cogitatible, re think the time, to after 2020,
any day now,
this is that release, the any day, now, let go

let God, no lie, I try to make up happy minds,
using **** induced happy thoughts, and it works,

once paranoia has no power to *** me, I am
the same old ***,
free
by any current or former force fit to pull or push,
one thing
thought, ping, pfft, as in origin  of wisdom,

the tale we shall trade for venison.

We shall tell the losers how to win as we have won.

The master plan, entertain a thought, as a we,
attain
we state, stage one, begun, gun, response gone,

launchers, beamers, senders, shields and points,
joins junction function fun

pfft, fun-c-tions, is funky in some sense original
funky sweat sox, stocking feet

stepping soft, from shadow into somewhat
thick bits of elumin-essence

light, to bright, blindness,
is not precisely blindness black colorless shadow
whither no eye
has seen,
now,

we, the commonly augmented majority of consumers
at the highest level tech has flooded
in search of meaning,

meaning meaning, on average what we agree I can
know and you may know otherwise,
or not at all.

We all fall down, we all age beyond this plane

visual tactile me,
bringing idle words to the for,
reason, in the last ditch effort
umph-oomph primal scream of the selfish gene.

Expunged of all blame.
One who wrestles with angels in word forms
indiscernible from deity or immortal info
locked in mental limbo,
during the roll out of the Breton Woods,
- through the woods, trans sylvania
- to grandmother's house we go

new world
ordered to these specs, with, as these little buggers are
known, easter eggs having Ready Player One options
available to every player after,
now, pull-
it is finished, the fix is in, aim AI mmmm good shot

imagine we won, and when we rethink the whole
history
the formation of the pattern in the everyday dance,
the peace we make is consumed
on contact and we presume
this is the result of all the was in the wasery we agreed
could be stored for ever use in idle words
patient, ready, locked and cocked,
to be deemed meaningful to an emptied mind…

old hunter memes, cave learned, in fire light
stories lead us
into the wild,
we do not know what we all find but each does go,
come and see.
A life, a blur.
So fast, forty days, who knew, time is flexible,
and whole truth structures
pop

as the strand, the lido, and the state theaters
flood my mind
with movie links to movies that I know,
- you saw those places named
- temples to the imagination,
- projections of republican dreams of Socrates
- being real
- and Plato but a secretarial disciple
- re-hung on each word.

I never saw as seeing since, I am the blind man
healed in a world lit by

--- smorke, is this a joke, are we trippin'

I trow not, y'know at a mean point we all think we know,

that is commonly not included in sheets
of things to take and eat.

The banquets let you bring a doggie bag.
Then we can meet some

point in the future to pick meat from the bones
of the monstor
mind fleeing freedom from a wedom you imagined
awe could norm m from, inform
formation in
absence of any thing good, ok, I claim I
saw this white space
perfectly empty, and if you never read this
this is still what I finally saw,
when I considered someday, you might wonder why.

Answer. I am old, and I can do a thing I once imagined doing.
Making order dance to my tune, on the order of
beautiful sunsets, in the daily transitions.

After that Sunset, on the full range mortal man
per
ifery vision, edge to edge, brow blur to brow blur
rolling hills and shadow sides of green trees,
seven kinds of pines alone,
and the only eucalyptus known to live
in the valley,
come alive in a deep purple cloudy night,
frogs and crickets,
I don't know what all but you could listen
all night be carried along,

long way off
there'd be a train, whistle saying
I ain't stoppin'
lesson

learned in school of these devices that could
signal with a bang,
and that those were as dangerous as bb guns
which I proved to Terry Musgove was not true,

I shot him in his belly and he did not **** me,
in fact, we still remember key events,
pertaining to the boomer bobble intersection

when are we live?

Bang, those things make when the train is to watch
out,
being a kid is dangerous now, too, sure…

so done is done, imagine making peace with
the parts,
it always flows
in packets like there is a method
ology logosic sense in this being after that

seems natural.
Straight forward, but ultimately pushed
into
a happy swirl like puppies staged for cute clicks.
Life one, on the grand scale, appears to be rolling along
better than ever if the improbable is the only answer
the impossible probably happens
more often,
out of the entertaining zone, beyond that we, in crazy
for real. but
literally, id-entity wise, not www real,
cohen singing everybody
knows

Blind Tuvan throat sings everybody knows,
the end

Ultimate is a very iffy word, truth be known,
eliminate the impossible,

we have done that to various degrees
in stages documented with this texting thing
that writes in shade on light,

do you imagine Issac anybody…
Asimov, a very public thinker imagined positronics
suppose posi-tronic brains, could run
in a meat mind and pass Turing tests

are we ready?
soon, right, not long, 5G, IOT gnoshit, we are it,

me and the old radio guy who hid in IT for 50 years,

no, twenty, maybe, thirty, hell,
forty soon right,
that Timex-Sinclair, 1984, $25…
since then
listen, did you ever hear the night so lively?

I'm of a mind to imagine angels enjoy joy
and join in enjoining the shade songs
to bher the choir roll as it thunders out at sea,

we see lightning, we see rain,
dam James Taylor leaves a mark, memes, those are,
we seeing what we think he meant he'd seen.

You know what I mean, and knowing
that is most of the fun in living past crazy, twice in one day.

Back off, magic pen,
the memory is mine, once I settled all accounts,
my worth
is not them knowing,
more than I survived, I did
not by being one of the few, but I survive
by being the only real me,
who stood in that position, calm eustasy,
in a box of thoughts tested time and again, knowing
and with a little umph, oomph, try,
once more,
effort, per haps a made up sweaty struggle,
to catch this magic fish who gave me this
wish
to have endless ink and informative material,
gestating as solemn promises to tell
as told,
speak when spoken to, pray you hear in time,
waiting is, but so is ever,
whose wish
haps first is whose may is now. In a word.

Now, the dau,
that idea, first bubble we be in,
and the final thought
we pay attention to,

a-priori, is a popular phrase on the pundit trail,
first any ever once,
enfolding now, augmented mortal
appropriation of the spirit
dau, the truth in life,
being.

Thinking is reading my mind.
You have the knack, read,
wiser minds have left letters locked in glyphs
of tradition,
-flash k;ab;alla; wink blink image of the map

this not terrain mortals trod, this is where
Shakespeare and Browning smoke ****
with me and Lady Wei, as seen
from a smoky hut
leaning on granite decomposing as I write,

this came to the surface, as a we, reader/writer
we may think in one
mind, while doing in another, and becoming
something else, in a third,

but it does not stop there, I hear in my realm,
Everest Pax, a child named
in a happy state of mind,
by my daughter,
at whose marriage, I broke the rule,
I made a pact,
with my son-in-law
using my own scruples,
stretched to threads of finest wire,
through holes but one photon wide,
one bit serial thought, off set by a function
forming
matter in states where nothing has mattered,
for a long, long time,
then today
- dao, kapow
the link to how often I proclaimed, I,
have always, and do now
take the easy way,
and that, they say,
is cheating. Wu wu boo who wu wei is
as water in our once crossed rivers, in the median,

between the freeways…

As I remarked early on this trek to find your name
in the book of my life, knowing
readers of this line, even, perhaps,
hearers, some day,
knowing tasted good, not knowing tastes evil as hell.
You exist in the book of my life as a reoccuring
character, who may be formed from early
childhood scruple implants,
Ossie Davis, look you in the eye, say
Do the right thing.

… which brings us, flop, stop, 2021 - three brothers
jonesing screens- Evvy screaming, he is five,
on no screen Sunday, a family tradition
in its first iteration, set by the mother
reinforced by the father, ignored
by Grandpa who is doing a show with Lady Wei,
on the experience
of Yang His, who received a vision from Lady Wei,
while Pine Valley high above the maddened crowd,

I hear it said, His had that Habakkuk habit, wu wei,
lady, did you lead me, write the vision, make it plain,
or is this all just
pretend, knowing is a given, one taste, concentrate

okeh, we on wu wei now, read and watch,
think and see,
what if this was happening to me, and I have
hyper-text such as no manuscript
on earth ever had,
no ink needed,
no ashes of prayers in the tea,
I used Pine Valley honey and flowers from a herm-kush
take a l'taste,
hear this, I think, I say

say, have you ever used Dragon Naturally Speaking?

On mute. If we think in Wade-Giles, and write in Pinyin,
- we can pass any shibbolethic judges of twang
and we got this Tuvan singer,
from New York City, a place he never saw

the glass harmonica can hold the high notes,
and we can channel the blind throat singer to hold down
the baser notes of life in soil creation,
till the hard rows, right,
sow the finest seed,
available, by chance, legally blind, where I went into total
last days, wait and see, here is here I presupposed
wu wei, no intervention
you came, now see,
this is where I live when in my right mind.
Now, I can make up my mind on matters of the wish,
last wish
from the magic golden carp in the castle mote,
I caught a thought in Ape and Essence,
and may have wished a bogus wish to live,
among the words that I redeem worth my use
-to form a more perfect union
-with my own heart's desire to be the best I may imagine,
given the tools fit for the perfectly happy, lazy old man,

who giggles at the idea of pulling down imaginations
that exalt themselves as institutes of authorized knowns.
Scratch my ear.
rethink, how Swedenbord did not doubt,
that old dude, just kept dippin' n' scribblin angels
who love to wrestle with scriptures gone pointy crown
shape burr, itches, crave, yes, the wish of which, witches mix
doubt is the art of balance between lines of several minds,
redo, redone, redo, redone, soon, we laugh
and walk away,
lady Wei, and I
leave His, making all this plain to the degree,
of telling history, I thought this, so real, it seems still
as real as any angel duty ever…
Yang His says:
Lady Wei, looks to me and said to me unspeakable things.
This is confusion, she let me know with
a single drop of black,

ashes of talismans burned in vain, never, to my knowledge
written in vain,
think once a godly thought, as used to say, just now,
think that as a practice,
this is that exercise
unto godliness.

First, gnoshit, attain the Yang His state of cannabis-bliss.

Or go on lying about what I think we know
already, this is
that earth,

where happy people think happy thoughts and others
find that maddening,

and Lady Wei laughs with me, we know the traits we give
to those who chose on any given day

to put on a mind made from words alone,
and listen.


----------------- author's note:
Taoism: An Essential Guide by Eva Wong, these lines occur
while listening to Chapter Four
The Shang-ch’ing texts tell us that Yang Hsi received a vision
from Lady Wei (who had become an immortal)
and then “wrote” the scriptures
under the influence of a cannabis-induced trance.

Suppose, it is a toe,
one of your own,
hurting like hell,
as our culture defines acceptible
and unacceptible degrees of pain,

hurting like hell,
is always something we can live with,
once the pain goes away, hell itself
being only a feeling fit way
to speak of chronic pain,
same as, so what;
hurting like hell,
is always something we can live with,
until we die,
because there is no cause I can accuse, in good
cultured to send such pain
to remind a man that
time is passing and with that there
is always a good measure
of senseless pain we never mind,

until we take step, unmindful, of that toe.