Copacetic:
attempts of levitation
Elevation to levels you did not wish for
I ignored
My truth in relentless
ruthless pursuit
of symbolic status demonstrating my supposed worth.

Copacetic:
Severed the lock and
opened my box of tools
to set the rules
for a game
I had said I never wanted to play.

Copacetic:
transformed myself
conformed to roles that fit like satin gloves
- if only in my own screenplay -
Downplayed
insincerity
Role played
authentic individuality.

Copacetic:
gulping misconceptions and
Mutually accepting regression to places
we thought we had
grown past and
persistently masked our intuitions.

Copacetic:
We departed
- no verity given or received -
with hearts decreased
in clarity and size
Our journeys lie ahead of us
respectively-
Collectively there's no decision
but to scurry on our own ways
And presently
your days look quite different than mine.

Sometimes she smells like roses and coconuts...

Everyday I bow to the eons and ions and atoms
within and surrounding her
for guiding me to the reality of which I enjoy being inside.

My life wasn't meant to be boxed into a 9-5 soul-******* vacuum office cube
trying to convince folks to buy bread with "homemade flavor" or fizzy brown corn syrup. That's how alcoholics are born.  

My living spirit is is supposed to play
like my inner child
at 2am smoking something
and waving to stars that might be spaceships
and singing songs to the silver moon.
I have to live like poetry in order to write.
Maybe not drink like poetry...
let's just say my time in Atlanta
might put Dylan & Edgar to shame.  

And she allows us to love like poetry,
our minds travel to soothing lands
where words mean nothing
and the only way to communicate is through sacred azure moans
of hyper-iridescent effervescent ecstasy.
That's what the truth sounds like.

I'm unchained,
back into the wild of myself,
unfettered from the confines
of a story or musical piece,
instead allowing my self and body
let the words and music play & write through me
like some fleshy electric with a hint of indigo flute fountain pen
so that others may know this glorious living that is poetry.

I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
   death(.)     (oh)
At The Juice Joint.

All wet.  (incorrrr
--ect.)

Applesauce. (non


sense.)

All dolled up. Showed off my
       Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).

Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.

...my fella.

?

Didn't have enough clams.

Any of us.

We

   're the new

Lost

      ...generation.

I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.

Might've been
     the
cat

's

meeeeeow.

And
how.

Ahhhhh...

we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
      Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.

Deeeeeewdropper.  ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt

...for me.

Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.

How ironic.

                You were the extinguisher.

Bring Your Own Knife

      , we said.

It's a Stabbing Party

     , we said.

I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
       ("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")

I percolate.
I percolate.

I percolate.

I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.


Just admire my

           chassis

if you will.

    they

all
    do

The engine'll purr
   for you,

~~if you turn the keys just so

Everything was
    Copacetic.

Copacetic...

For a time.

         (get'hotget'hot!)


Caesar's here.

                                       Hussssshhhhhhhh...

...speak


         ~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.

And then I realized.


  

                                I'm tired of being Caesar



(      .       )

My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

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That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

Mad Men – AMC - AMC.com www.amc.com/shows/mad-men Official site for AMC's award-winning series Mad Men: Games, making-of videos, plus episode & character guides.

$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

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Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards

My copacetic life:
Boring, plain, safe.
I am only resting and waiting
To just stop existing
I never waited for you
Or the fear you instill to me
Because why would I
Angel/Devil
I do not know you
But I want to

I was playing a game with my kids the other day

I asked:
What do you use to see?
She said 'your eyes'
He said 'your brain'
Both right
Next I asked what do you use to hear?
She said 'your ears'
He said 'your brain'
Both right, again

The wisdom of children!

The game ended there but it got me thinking about what we use to feel
The most straight forward answer is our skin
Your brain is what processes the sense of touch so that has to be included
What about your heart?
Where does it fit into the big scheme of things?
Isn't the heart the space where we process feelings?

I have to loosely define things and often turn them upside down
ruminate
reorder my worldview to make it copacetic
I'm pretty sure that I often walk in two worlds
If my mind is simply locked in the western paradigm then people look at me like I'm bizarre
I'm not joking when I say they've wanted to lock me up because of my views
When I allow my mind to get locked into this western paradigm,
I sometimes even feel like I belong in lockup.

That's even worse than being held against your will
You're being held because you've lost your will

So I play with definitions to better suit my needs

When you do this however, there is a risk
Last summer I unlocked a spectre as I drank deeply and greedily from Crypt Lake

Crypt Lake is a real place on this planet
How did it get it's name (you might ask)?
According to the Blackfoot, placenames aren't given,
they come from place

Let's contextualize ~ this is all part of the journey
The physical leads to the spiritual and vice versa
To get to Crypt Lake you have to enter Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park
Found in the southwest corner of Alberta and the northwest corner of Montana
Once through the gates you have to catch a boat at a certain time
You have to be in the physical plane of existence at this point otherwise you're not getting on that boat
Once you get to the trailhead, then you can start to drift

That's what I did
As I walked, I let the stories come into me
I let them flow through me
They were sitting there waiting to be told
A spruce, arm in arm, with a pine
Hawks circling overhead
An ever present alertness for our bear brethren
Always open to the wildflowers
Indian paintbrush (I have red hair could I be considered an indian paintbrush?)
Pollinators flitting about
Oh, the water

Listen to the stories the water told:
First we come to Hell Roaring Falls
Next Twin Falls
Next Burnt Rock Falls
And to reach the Crypt, we have to pass through a mountain tunnel
Opening up to Crypt Falls
and finally Crypt Lake

This is a regular heroes journey if you allow it to be
I was in that place in my mind where I allowed it to unfold as it may

This is a place that's also known as the Crown of the Continent
Not far away is Chief Mountain, Turtle Mountain, and Crowsnest Mountain
Also Writing-On-Stone and the Milk River and Sweetgrass
These are holy names, this is a holy land

What I saw at Crypt Falls was the backbone of the continent
I saw the backbone of Turtle Island

I was floored
I had been on a continent wide spirit quest a few years previously
There was talk that the Deed for Turtle Island was coming due
And maybe it would be produced at one of these gatherings
We all waited but nobody produced it

I ruminated on that idea for a few years
I'm pretty sure that the Deed was there
Those who held it, just didn't realize

I learned something at the Crypt
I wanted answers and I made an assumption
I assumed that the water held the answers
So I drank deeply, even greedily from the Crypt

Right there in the international peace park, on the crown of the continent
With the Old Chief and the Crowsnest not far away
Writing-On-Stone just a sashay away
What about writing in calcium?
If I were the earth, I would encode important information in something
Transmutable

Not blood.
Bones

What I learned up there on the mountain as I gulped down knowledge from the Crypt was that the deed is written into the bones of the land and into the bones of those borne of that land

This is indigenous knowledge

It's in the water, the water is the medium for the message
The bones are the stock
But just like a double helix
A genetic sequence is an expression of time and place
On a certain spacetime continuum this innocuous looking structure
(take a look in the mirror)
Has all the necessary answers

I arrive at your doorstep, flowers in hand,
To surprise you on this beautiful day in June.
Your birthday, and the perfect day to take you out,
Could there be nothing more excellent than this?

I ring your doorbell and stand there for a minute,
And then you open the door,
Swollen eyes and a tearstained face.
Darling what's the matter?

I try to console you,
But you only push me away.
Saying that you are sorry.
Whatever you've done, why should I be mad at you?

I attempt to hold you ,
And then you begin to scream
At the top of your lungs.
How long did you say it was since?

I am confused now,
If you say that you eat double now,
And that you and I brought life here,
Then why should you be sad?

I do not understand,
And you begin crying again.
'It is the product of another man!'
And now I wonder why?

I understand now,
And I am frozen dead in my tracks,
I drop the flowers and walk out the door
Do I dare look back?

I can hear you crying behind me and I drop to my knees in your front yard.
For hours I sit as your wails die down,
You bring out a beer for me and a soda for yourself.
And I ask you 'how long?'

You reply with 'only a few weeks'
And to follow I ask who.
Somber, you cannot remember,
Only that you were not willing and could not recall much.

We gaze unto the stars and what a whirlwind these hours have been,
Conversing until dawn.
And everything remains calm as I carry you back inside,
Sleeping in my arms.

On your bed I lay you,
And beside you I stay until you are deep in slumber,
Peaceful and the flowers now in a vase.

I touch your stomach and I can nearly feel the life within.
Life jumps beneath your closed eyelids.

Considering the circumstance, I cannot think of a better way to spend this June day.

Let's boogie
in the electric synaptic light show club
called "Us."

Jackhammer legs quake the place
as everyone hums to the rhythms of their synchronized eyelids
and lungs pumping out golden dolphin breath.
Together copacetic drinks are raised and clinked
echoing like a hummingbird's wings shimmering in the afternoon sun,
Great Spirit, the bartender serves up a round on the house
of midnight snow owl whisky
for those ruminating Rumi and Hafiz's poetry,
the ones already beaming crystal quartz incandescence
from their heart and minds being present in the swaying
space that is the sacred spiral grouse dance.

Some peeps puff tree in the maui wowie mahogany lounge,
the prairie dog smoke carves the air
as these folks reflect and stare at their streams of consciousness
like a blue heron waiting for that third eye fish
for dinner.

The mirrors reveal our inner higher self children
of the moonrise kingdom building the iridescent
bridge to the rainbow road.    

When when it's last call
we shall tiptoe home like drunken mice
stumbling up the melting sphere clock
to rest upside down opossum comfortably
giggling giggling thunderous heyoka whispers
into each other's shoulders
until the aquarian dawn.