a deep chthonic rumble bids me re
read
Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception
Brave
New World Apocalypse,

now retold by the last of those old carp,
using modern magi-tech to tap

Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters,
each holding certain truth servant but they
mention no slaves, as we imagine
all men were by right rich in time to read
and speak of things read or said
in writing found in hidden places,
lonely,
all by my self places,
said to be, places in the mind, while
places in the heart have others of our kind.

We make up a mind, we say in thought
I see
the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs,
though many
of the idle words they left as
landmarks, lost all meaning over time
being folded up and put away,
for future perusal with intent to improve

whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum?
whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best
is yet to come?
Not mine, in my future, your now.

Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one,
ignor the basest of
us,
the beings once mated with actual gods

Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy...
that thought
that evolved into,
lying for the good of the corps social structure,

the mould… formed from thinking that thought
the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone
the builders rejected,

get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons,
genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight
from one point to another,
not smooth as glass,
level as
any
still pond, still lake of your one time experience
seeing the meaning of still
water
that remains the measure of stillness,

by which all further stillness is judged.
You know what I mean, by the measure you use.

Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken
meanings tie us to our measure.

Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus,
as we all bear witness
everything under the sun is much older than any
New World Order, on fractally every scale.

sugar cane berry stains

lost friends life's bends

mountain still, in the end




there and back i've seen

we were kids, you were teens

we learned a lot where we've been




one more shot before we go

that sacred breath you always know-

when to call it a day

Be That Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man—
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.

I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18 in 1976. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken—destitute, really. Keywords/Tags: Grandfather, Grandpa, rock, shelter, fortress, strength, courage, angels, years, time, age, loss, truth, voice

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever love someone the same as they love me.
Will it always be too much or not enough or somewhere in between?
I'm not sure why I have it wrong time and time again.
But I always end up feeling lonely or want them more as just a friend.
Will someone ever love me like I love them?
Will we ever walk down the same path and not have to pretend?
I'm not sure why I have these vices but my grandpa I think had them too. I found poems he wrote on a typewriter, back in '62.
They weren't about love but they rhymed in a way that showed he hurt. If I could only know the memories that lay in his body behind his tobacco smoke-infused shirt.

emma, 13 years old.
alfredo, 61.

emma: hi grandpa nice to see you what's your wifi-password?

alfredo: i don't have wifi.

emma: written altogether?

Sitting in your old arm chair,
With a devil may care,
Attitude.
Talking about the ingratitude
Of youth.
Watching TV,
Eating microwaveable meals,
Grumpa,
I still love you,
I remember the times when I was young,
and you helped me,
when I was stung,
by a wasp,
or fell over.
Life is hard,
it makes you,
grumpy and
lonely,
Please think of the things you’ve shown me,
Rather than talking about the things that make you despair
I know behind the passive aggression you still care,
I know I sometimes take the ****,
But really Grumpa,
I can see all your tricks,
There is still, to my surprise,
magic behind those eyes,
And bedtime stories waiting to be read.
Grumpa,
Don’t lose the thread
We all need a grandfather like you,
For you have all the experience,
You will know what to do!