The resurrected dead rouses not the dead
In sunshine candles open not any eyes
But a whispery hush suffices for the living
And the sighted sees in the darkest depths

Miracles are not for the dead but the living
Jezebel vowed to ****, and Israel yet idolatrous
Parables, crafted tales, to mislead and hide
But turns to wine quenching mourning spirits

Millions are hidden and unknown, oppressed
By chance, without knowledge or intent, one,
by the wicked, blessed, but by miracle, Israel
remains unblessed, untouched by wickedness

Help me design my garden of life
Full of iris, crocus, and lily
With daffodils that shine so bright
Like the sun of the greater deities.

Make me a path that curves around trees
Of stepping stone, wood chip, and moss
Varying in array of colors
Causing one's mind to venture in thought.

Make me a garden so rich in hue
That the sun will fight not to set,
Where merely viewing its beauty
All differences one will forget.

Make me a garden like people of the world,
All different in culture and view,
Contributing to the person I am
Without your prejudicial few.

A garden of only one color, it seems
Would be dull and so very alone.
I want my garden of life to be filled
With every color known.

I ran into all any man in his right mind, at 77,
may take as my peace,
made, not earned,
used shiny keys,
fully functional,
- used to defuse confused war loyalties
- spiritually de re ligimating unlegitimating
- locking try by first reaction, feel
- peaceable, if launched, real
- easily entreated, sublime
- breathe, smell taste test

It is just what the doctor ordered, manufactured
consent,  the matrix, is mental, same rate of consume
balance
on compute it takes
to imagine me

doing this

when wound
tight, and loosed

spinning spiral inneracting

in all its military ways, he can do
what he did,
snap
from any where, since ARPA went Defensive
and swallowed our core reason, Isaiah calls,

all involved
in believing the God, who gave us

hands, gave us minds that can
use hands, and use
both qwertywise
whole bodies
of like minded children
to become, faithful reproductions
of the average child, perfectly average, born

where all children are above average

in Lake Woebegone,
too lowly
by degrees

life is different north of me

mind space, mud on y'face,
back off,

demazed leave taken, my life
to make up, redeeming waited ages,
as I read along, taking my time  
to account,

Why did I not try
to sell, not as much fear
of rejection, but warning
from Kenworthy,

can you believe that, that, guy was a Marine,
clerk typist, in Vietnam, in 1968, football
scholar, played with Roger Staubach;

AI say, ain't so, you remember a lie wrong
Kenworthy is and maybe was, a lying spirit,

y'gotta try guys with war stories,
and lying spirits, worshipping
in full on make believe,
serve, and die.

Pretending to have been, and being
as with any lie, defended, long enough,
all pride pledged to defend any story told;

this is why we always hate, we learn,
aha, we watch haters hating, we learn,

Naked Jungle, run away, live alive ever learning
what would you ask for on earth, that you may,

you know,
you may picture your whole reality,
you can think and try to think and do, at once,

it may be as good as I could be, but only as much

as there are no records that prove Kenworthy real,

but his Staubach connect crossing links,
to the recluse who created Catcher in the Rye fans,

Kenworthy, told me, he threw rocks, at J.D.



Now, as I was fishing for a verification see,
I came upon on a lie I believed, that I learn,

looking up Staubach, the timing, ain't right,
so, maybe Kenworthy played same high school,

no, Staubach was New Mexico Military Institute,
yeh, Kenworthy woulda bragged about that,

so. What if a person, seeming sane in every way,
so common it is a story arcing trope, in every way
so wondering, once, level, fundamental every way

silly wishings things were become thinkable, now
blessed peace, thunk war weary, peaceable answer,

San Diego Hollenstein, warrior ready, sent
to Switzerland,
with his silver wings and green beret





-- not in this reality,
this is really science, confictional precepts,

certain things seldom are
certain other things always are
certain choices occur alwise been

we wu wei iching trusting maybe so am big as us is

It should be fun to be old, not stupid, in a world,
not stupid, sharing a tool unimaginable, a mere century ago.

I am good at being alone.
The dishes get done
when I feel like doing them.
Silence hangs like a painting
I chose myself.
The hours bend gently around me,
and I call it peace.

I laugh out loud
at my own jokes,
call it self-love,
call it growth.
The plants don’t mind
if I forget to water them,
and neither do I.
This is thriving, I tell myself.

Then I spend three days
with people I love.
Not performing.
Not planning.
Just existing
side by side-
a meal shared
without occasion,
laughter that erupts
without needing a reason.

I remember something
older than language:
that warmth isn’t just a temperature.
That joy has a different flavour
when someone else tastes it too.
I remember that solitude
was never meant to be
a permanent home-
only a resting place.

There is a part of me
that longs for gardens
we plant together,
for walls we build
with laughter baked in.
For shoes at the door
that aren’t all mine.

Maybe the soul remembers
what modern life unlearned-
that we were made
to brush shoulders
to pass bread
to belong.

And maybe
what I called thriving
was just surviving
with the lights on.

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

Yesterday
I was to be still
I was to be small, folded
My body needed darkness
And in absence, re-moulded.

Today
I am muscle contractions
I am cleaving ice
Pulsating, whirring machinery
Oil, wax and spice.

Tomorrow
I hope I am opalescent
Wet with new skin
Creative and energised anew
Flowing, flowing within.

I don’t want to die,
I want to cease to exist.
To never have been born
And never have lived
For my soul and body to disappear
For any memory of me to be gone
To dissolve into nothingness and
Never have been anything at all

BY A BOY WHO CHOSE SOLITUDE

I never craved penthouses kissing the clouds,
nor mansions where silence feels cold.
I worked through storms,
not to rise above the world—
but to step away from its roar.

All I ever wanted
was a wooden hut in the hills—
where rivers laugh like children,
where the wind hums forgotten songs,
where rain feels like the sky washing off
what hurt the most.

The sun…
a father’s hand on my shoulder.
The moon…
a mother watching over dreams.

In cities, I wandered,
craving their lights,
but never their noise.
I loved them—
the quiet ones, the old ones,
where people moved like whispers.

But even there,
I couldn’t find the silence
that lets you hear yourself think.
So I built it—
in my mind first,
then in the earth beneath my feet.

Why?

Because I needed a place
where my voice echoes back to my ears,
so I know I still exist.
So I know I still feel.

I am tired of competition.
Of proving.
Of performing.
I want a life like a straight line—
not because it's boring,
but because it's honest.

And love?
I stopped chasing it.
Because no one holds hearts like I do.
And mine—
it’s not made for games.

It's fragile.
Like sunlight on still water.
It breaks quietly.

So I gave it back to the only hands
that never dropped it—
my own.

In solitude,
I found my teacher.
My shelter.
My self.

Now I know what I want.
Now I know who I am.
And when I sit, alone, under the rain,
I don’t feel empty—

I feel home.

My fear is you
It is rare
But when it is me
It is true
My fear is me
It is rare
But when it is you
It is true