~'From the Halls of Inspiration'~

****!
This guy won't give me a break!
Every message,
Gives me pause,
When you are on hold, when you're my old,
Cripes, it ain't nice,
Got these new poems swirling, overlapping in a well rested head,
Partially born fetuses, puppy squeaking, demanding momma's milk,
Insistent, like puppies who refuse to cease from licking, nibbling your
Noses & Toes,
Along comes the greatest almost comical line I've ever reen
(read & seen)
And don't mind sharing with you folk,
A STELLAR INSIGHT,
Poems are dragged, kicking and screaming, slimy covered in
Amniotic fluid thick creamery.
BETTER WASH YOUR HANDS, YOUR BRAINS,
Lest them new poems keep on keepin' on
And somewhere a tinny voice screeches,
More Coffee Ma!

for
she, an unending gift of inspiration,
a thank you for learning me a new word
Hungry for the sharing
<>

Cloud-busting: Mare's tails -
"Horse tail clouds," also known as "mare's tails," are a type of cirrus cloud characterized by their thin, wispy, and streaky appearance, resembling the tail of a horse. These clouds are composed of ice crystals and form at high altitudes, typically between 5 and 10 miles above the ground. They are often associated with approaching weather changes,
particularly warm fronts, and  may signal
the possibility of rain or increased winds."

<>
With newly acquired knowledge,
Comes new responsibilities
No longer is a fleece flecked blue aureola sky
Just a harbinger of good tidings,
Its inner working require further investigation,
And a new concern must now,  by instigation
to be attended, by instantation

So it is.
With every column, differing opinion, advice, new knowing,
comes
Those **** burrs, that irritate but don't break the skin,
Concerning, demanding discerning, and unthinkable.
Now
Attention must be paid.
Ah,
Paid.

Perhaps trivial, perhaps not, but
The less the ignorance, the more the bliss?

We turn to each other,
And only to each other,
Whisper great fears of what yet to be,
Things so commonplace now,
As to be unthinkable!

Will our descendants ever know
A dry faucet?
Days when electricity is only available but for a few hours,
Toilets that are illegal to flush?
When when,

those
systems that with witch we pay so little heed,
we do not concern us now,
Routine, unseen, and someone else's responsibility,
Be luxuries in the future?

Can I with conscience clear see a most excellent daylight,
And not seek out, worry about, the wispy warnings of
Horse tail clouds?

~for Rob Rutledge!~
<>
too oft we do not invest
Sensation
in the under-appreciated,
in the singular,
oneword
all that is needed,  all that is required to
freely steal the breath away, and
you stand up and shake your
head, nay,
your entirety,
smiling at the fulsome perfection of
simplicity
(The oneword?)
Beautiful

Sunday
July 20th
6:36 am
In the sunroom
<>

I have been accused by y'all of being four of the five above,
But never ever has anyone accused me of being
Pithy







<>
well, maybe the second definition below,
As in
"natty oh natty.
you're full of…
pith"

Legalize/Sell you a disease
/then,  sell you a cure*

"Venture Capital Bet Big on Gambling.
Now It’s Banking on the Addictions."
Barron's

This is how we "live"
from momentary to momentary,
from under coverlet to coverup
putting ✅'s  next to a litany
of little tasks, diurnal scheduled
and their completion is proof
you really made to that minute
of each day, a survivor,  for only
you can schedule, only you can
check it off, only you can rationalize
and hide the private shame of the
conscious deletion of the unfulfilled
                                                               untruths
                    
from illusion to illusion,
like wearing the right clothes
for the occasion, and/or going naked,
hoping no one calls you emperor,
you are chilled - put on an illusion
to keep you warmer and only you
know you're dressed for winter,
scarf gloves heavy overcoat for
SPF 100 protection from the glaring
of July's humidity's sunny suffocation's
                                                                      ill disposition

this is how we navigate our
basic training until habits engraved
on your skin are the wardrobe we hide
within, some even change our name,
our defining characteristics so others
can admire the unreal you
create, all dressed up in couture
illusory, smiling graciously to
imaginary fawning admirers and
you shed real tears for real emotions
conjured by dreaming lightly the fantastical
                                                                ­            delusionary

you cover yourself in metaphors,
eating adjectives like sugar and
nouns like satisfying carbohydrates
so you feel full for a minute and then
run to the mirror for more pretending
pre-tense verbal alcoholic snacks
                                                         getting fat on self~deception

your watering eyes make writing
so difficult even though the tearing.
words easy come and easy go out
                                                           but here, you persevere

you pretend you can change your name,
adopt and adapt to a new persona, thinking
how pretty I look in this new dress,
how thin (!) we appear in a fresh slim 8
thin fit suit, tie perfectly tie knotted, etc.,
                                                           ­        at our personal funhouse mirror

but she (who?) encapsulated it perfectly
in the Sixties, "it's life illusions I recall,
I really don't know life at all"
when/if I make it to  a century mark,
that lyrical rhyme,  I'll still be humming,
and making ✅'s on a calendar that
doesn't matter,, reassuring that ancient
nonsensical notion of I exist, therefore, I am...

12:55am,
refreshed after a nap and ready
to embrace the white light of an
empty shell of a clean unwritten sheet
of many individual minutes of the night
till it dawns once more, and the illusions
need checking off again; oh yeah, hi!
Please,
                                         DO NOT FORGET

                                               ✅ *write a poem

every poem gets the exact number
of reads it deserves
<>

nah, I don't think that for
a millisecond,
shoot,
not a ****** nanosecond (1)

truthfully
I'm torn up inside
and my thinking
absolutely
could be wrong
or could be right
absolutely

just like the optionality
of believing in god;
has to be some force
of intelligence that
could create such
microscopic complexity randomly
or just thinking the world
is just a series of accidentally
interactions

so
who's to say what's good,
what's not so good,
and by what standard
one should judge

Is this a poem?
Heck if I know

and what sbout the poems that
get not a one,
a single one, absence of curiosity,
an unheralded execution.
death by silent ignorance,
a master's mastery of exactitude
all because
just because

Is that a collective decision
by an unconscious collective,
the best moderne equivalent of
the unmarked death

of just a single one of
your billions of brain cells (2)(3)

all I know is
that my confusion is confirmed
my constancy is inconsistent
my equatorial balance is
gonzo, dragging me down,
each division wants to piece me up,
and today,
right now
got no answers
at all

how do I define myself?
what categories do I fit
within?

and yet
that answers one question!

do not write interrogatory inquisitions
at 1:15 am
(unless you're a DUMB lucky *******
who believes they got
answers)

For Ryan Geoffrey Hayward

This image does not resonate with me;
No, it bangs, dings, slaps my head,
Wake up call!
Time to write,
release, be pleased, ESCAPE
with pow!ered words,
oozing music,
You are not a fly,
but a human who can fly and find
those fork-in-the-path
choice holes
escape
[Escape]
and set yourself free
again and again
and
a Gain

Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics

fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,

at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even  now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?

Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking

But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:

Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the

outrageous misfortune

of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** ****, these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago  
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.

Enough whining:
I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering

3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025