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.
We have a herd of Turkeys in the valley that nobody ever shoots, but you still think about it this time of year, given a chance.
