I let myself go
in the stream, with the stream
sensing the bed, the banks
my fingertips brush the rocks
and the crocodiles
feel where they crush
at which angles they cut
I know the tension
of the muscles, legs, jaws

and let them go
in my stream, with my stream
my bed and receding banks
give them the space
of wasted efforts
and bruises on their soul

that seeks its salvation
in the stream, the great stream
without a bed, without banks
and without direction

How many hours
spent scribbling these poems?
How many days wasted
rereading them,
nudging and prodding
each word into its proper place
until it all flowed and sounded...

still not quite right.

feeling the current
tugging at my sleeves
rocking me from my stasis
turning me into liquid
when i thought
the ground was firm beneath me,
heels feel the crumbling
quaking beneath,
just letting the flow
breathe me into
this next song,
new key,
new rhythm,
new tones,
timber through me

this is what comes next,
we have learned
to wait for
this.

The world, the environs of me i see,
have changed
or become

other than I imagined in the illusory phaze

visual-real-aural-real-terror-real ah,

no
right no holy terror here, we past that.

title-mebbe Ignorance is a choice, it is vain,
the effing efforting to ig nobel so high a wave as mine.

Rock and roll poets with scientific magi making tools
that obey our virtually

every
whim. Imagine that. We did. What now?
or ance, re ignorance
mebbe

a dance,
a wee twist that tugs us back to unem,

we chuckle. You know, if you have not thought
how happy after right now,
might work if it were your might that makes it work,

then. This is that. In a poem. A poem puddle the flow flowed to.

Most days, I feel alone
Most days, I can feel it in my bones
The way the dark wind blows
It’s like I’m the only one against the flow

I wake up each day in a twilight zone
I look to my left and my right, I’m on my own
But when I look up to the sky, there you’re aglow
Be with me, in this land down below