aware of some
things, aware
HERE am I
there you are

near and far and nothing
in between, why
should I care, beware…

It's me,
in this world, it's me,
making up my mind, to live on,
to live on
to leave behind me, for you -

a way to go,
if you really wish to follow, if
you truly hold the hope of ever
being better than right
now,
now. Right, not wrong, right now.
You know.
You think you know, right now,

with no miracles, no little things
to see, with no joy felt shared,
with no sorrow shown in tears,
with no feet a dancin'

up on tippy toes, just a spinnin'
in time,
like a planet or a star, loopin' life
in time,
from somewhere inside, center
of heavy
of hard
of dark and cold… dark and cold…

singer… singer singing wordlessly,
la las and mmmhmmms, so so so

lighten up,
lighten up my will to be worthy,
lighten up my will to be care free,

lighten up my will to be loved, by

strangers who imagine I have
loosed some good in some shape,
loosed some good held out of sight,

strange as not cognized, coknown,
to me and you, the other end of these

lines left to prove, a second
thought… if you make joy, peace remains
enjoyable,
no mass converts to energy,
my taken peace, my inspiration never
expires, each time I miss, I miss nothing
I hit
on another decision
to make.

I laugh, and let out long rambles, through
brambles familiar
to creatures built low
to the ground
at the human
being being being more than…

Partaker of the programming.
Snipping
Re-ligamental knots, religious at-here-
ence sense so common to all here,
re-
filtered feeling manufactured, here
in living words translatable, peaceable,

easy
to use while defusing the confusion,
and allowing angelic angst ambitious umph,

committed, chance fret naught,
take the shot, think thirty aught six, BANG

Big,
nothing like the game, recoil
that's what's missing… recoil,
kick,
to remind you what Newton knew.

Not Issac, Fred Newton, from Weedpatch, Ca,
a few miles this side of Bakersfield…

He, comes up around Thanksgiving,
in the spirit now, since he's dead,

he looks at me and grins, so big.

For me to live, that  turkey must die.
old fisher of men, he knew, he'd say
a man's remembered, for the shot,

no turkey ever is,
that's something
to be thankful for.

Old man stroked his chin,
Rubbed his forehead
And ran his hands through his hair.
He cleared his throat,
Tightening the slack in his line,
He was a regular killick in his time -
Youth was short, but was it fair.
These days it's just a simple trolling boat,
And he casts his rod overboard
But he's not been bringing up a lot.
Waitin' on that change in the wind.

And it’s in this miserable, and
disastrous handy advice,
All that is left; for those who aren’t
as adroit; as fishermen in the game
of love, to find their catch
— a master baiter.

Ends up being what they’ll
believe is the right choice to make
then after, to instead be
— a masturbator.

Ice melts on the Lake.
Fish will move into shore soon.
Please bring back the dock.

Anxiously waiting.
I just bought some more tackle.
March, please be a lamb.

Walleyes taste the best.
Get the hot Cajun batter.
I feel a slight tug.

https://newrepublic.com/post/178321/watch-trump-missile-defense-ding-ding-ding-boom-whoosh
From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh


On a scaled bell curve
from vague déjà vu to aha,

how does it feel to be asked to explain
your self warierness, knowing now Sydney
can happen, therefore, as with wherefores,
we must assume we make good on our promise,

good, the precept second to wisdom nullifying
the fear that no balanced being rolled on
in ever after each positive met its neg face to face,

pfft, that's it last time, chaos can't even be imagined,

saved in truly ancient seafoam stone, witnesses
to pacts still sticky to this days, for those in those knowns,

we imagine our attention bubble swells and pops,
and stops,
for an immeasurable period, dot, in time past, as reflection
spreading in the frequency each emanates, in sunshine
during the day time and electrically released unstickiness,

evaporative we, gaseous wedoms, as the space lacing clouds,

foam along the shore,
children finding shining things and treasuring each,
an instant few old folks live long enough
with open minds
to see that instance
of both knowing, wordless child minds
meet where the pattern
of so many beautiful spins, prove phi
solves problems pi can't imagine, umphing

being maybeing, as planned parenthood seems sound advice,
judgement begins inside your knower,
judge your own self, the one you sold to no other, you
be the only heir to all the truth you ever knew you knew,

you had been guiled, given guile
to see the leverage
in knowing, symbols enfolding instructions
to model in mortal perceptible graphic mappings

any thing, we may imagine and communicate,
we can do, may we, is upto you, your may makes
next seem
worth exploring fearlessly bold as warier than earlier
carries with it no hell to fear as possible, the attempts

to realify and profess such a good god made thing,
resulted in the currently common hormone suppressants.

One cannot hold Hell gut level true and survive the fear
such madness unleashes in laws to contain the misled minds.

Reject the chance to learn a new way of making thoughts
realizations, or
tune in, same clear text signal since texting
became the long term Turing test, which mind am I,

after following several suicides over that same jagged edge,
but with survivor kid goat-sense and higher res eyes,
a mantra from my grand pa, he sing yo ** so, say

there, from here, there is always a place to put your foot,
keep your balance,
hold your soul self, your own self we said in my clan,
hold your self to set path, or call that self the liar,
and turn around

the idea behind repentance, nothing to pay, something
to do, warier by outperience, having been imagining
running down the edge of the cliff on hind's feet,
something like this entire circumstance involving instances
in prayer,
clumping, lumping likes into wee tiny aweformers, twists
to the I in us all, we wish to be the celebrity, what's

the attraction factor, why do some mindstates demand
the murky opiated optional dream timing ding ding boom whoosh

From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh

Who used to stay up late talking?
You were drunk and had no one else to listen

Love the invisible fishing line that hooked me directly through my gills even still to this day

You caught me without using a single piece of bait

Light bends through the grass.

making dinner seen by him.

The worm says goodbye.

Remembering feels like a finger dipping
Into a puddle at the back of my head

Our memories are still water
Cold, muddied, stepped in

They fill the dimples in the asphalt
Of my mind

If remembering is a water sport
Then I am an old fisherman

Trudging my boots from bay to bay
Fishing line gripped in pruned hand

Looking through the small pools
Finding goldfish in a city of pavement