Welcome to the picaresque, pick a risk then pick a rest. Make sure it is picturesque. Flick the pest, the child who’ll grow to live off trysts and slit her wrist. The usual for the unusual, victims of the few who shall use you all. View a child atop the hugest wall. We used to bawl for him to come to a stall, now we call for him to make a move and fall. Stay there, son. A weird son, aware some. Beware ****, he’s fearsome. So veer from the glossed frost on the dross. See the tears run from the pail tossed. Speak of your fears none while we await the pale horse. Run your frail course, walk the trail lost and hail costs. Still, it’s to no avail, boss.

Loss.

This is … a verbal Picasso, an herbal antipasto, a historian’s emporium showcasing ancient fossils in a Costco. The VIP is reserved for the lost souls… who know they’re lost souls. There’s a red carpet with a tar pit leading to the flying car market. Prospects get a starter kit if they can test drive and park it on target. Watch out for the Barkets, zombified studs and starlets who’ve lost wits—walk into Target, get a guitar pick to shave their armpits and use a hair to floss with. Mark it; don’t forget or ignore this flawless gauntlet—you could call it an ornate orchid—designed to sting like hornets and upset and offset from the onset. This is … a director on set, an astronaut prepared and all set—just hasn’t launched yet. A gambler who never lost bets or brought debts. A fish who’s caught nets, a hostage who spoke threats, a treasure in a closed chest on a tall crest above a forest.

No rest.

A small test against the zest of this poet’s. I’ll pass the test then pass the test to the next. At a desk impress, confess or jest your best. Dress the mess in less and less duress. Address the text, your stress prevents success. Press, don’t guess—think steps ahead like chess.

Yes.

I used to ride through cities on Shadowfax, now I ride through on shadows’ backs. With a daunting scepter, haunting specters with shallow laughs that strike like a jagged axe. A gaze that stuns, and burns like a graze from the sun. Yeah, a scowl from beneath a cowl, as I growl, howl and prowl on a brazen run. On a mission to save the sons, and save the daughters—the sacred ones. I am the likes of Vader’s son. Sent by the Ancient One (not Doctor Strange’s one), I came tamed, unchained, trained with a light saber and a laser gun. Steel teeth, quasar gums and a razor tongue. Peering where the Savior hung. Praising with a raging lung. Fist raised with a flaming thumb. Dangling from an aging rung. There is nothing another man can save me from.

You got something to add? …

Save me sum.

This is where I came from,
and the place to which I shall come back at the end.
I have been away many times,
and between the setting out and the returning
there are towns, villages that are home to others,
rivers and mountains that are familiar to them,
but all are strange to me.
The people that I meet, good people for the most part,
even those with whom I travel some of my journey,
are not my people, and I am not sad
to part from them.
So I travel on, and each time
my journey brings me to the same place,
and I am happy to know it again.
Sometimes, alone and far away,
I see men and women happy to be where they are,
and notions may come to me in the night
that I too could be happy somewhere else,
that another place could be home.
But with the sunrise, as the mists disappear,
I see those phantoms for what they are,
the ramblings of a lonely soul, fantasies,
imaginations of what might have been.

The search goes on
to discover at last
that we are not alone..
Yet others wait
for the discovery
that we are alone..
Alone in knowing
that Awareness knows
itself Alone
and that we
and this exoplanet
color our Awareness
as we remain Alone...**


Closest Exoplanet To Earth -- August 2016
On Aug 24 2016, the European Southern Observatory announced the confirmation of the closest exoplanet to Earth. This illustration (see polarityinplay.blogspot.com) shows Proxima b, which orbits its parent star Proxima Centauri, the closest sun to Earth's sun. Proxima b lies within its sun's habitable zone, strongly suggesting the planet has liquid water on its surface.
Huffington Post

i didn't know what i was gonna do,
but the bells were the bells and the ringing too.
i was the sky and
the paralysis. the perfect
glitch.
the pit and the speculum.
all the better to see you with -
your own life. i pry and dispense with the drivel
of our marketing plan and wage peace.
i keep thunder under my super vision.
i realign the timpani of my discord
in dismay. i didn't know what i was gonna do,
but the bells were bells and the ringing, new.
again came the verse that first had no thought
but ought,
but somehow got caught
in my nimbus, too.
the first blink of a marble statue.
how that feels. and what that means.
and something
else.

and the
truth.

back at you.

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead tide alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men **** for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.