this surly hour
I entered a new world
where the old become strange,
the known go unknown;
Siblings and elders
relations by law, friends, teachers
who we knew so long
go acting unknown
either me, unseeing
for who they are now
or them, acting distant;
Those who we loved
feign unwant,
who we adored
flagrant;
Now here like the onion
I peel the layers
going sepia from ambient
just the highlight
of this twilit hour when
beloveds go estranged

I am an onion,
Layer upon layer there
Is of me,
And none of these
So readily revealed
To casual scrutiny,

Oh  no you must work
And work hard to
Learn each layer,
Reveal every closely guarded
Aspect of my being
Or my soul

But dig hard enough,
Dig deep enough
And with a sharp enough blade,
And with dedication
You may just see
That which I may choose you to

the onion in father's hands didn't have time to cry,
with his fist punched it on the corner of the table, spread salt and
ate it with sheep's cheese,
(like the builders of the pyramids, my dad was paid in onions)

the onion in my mother's hands was sweet and made many leaves,
spring after spring she shared it throughout the village,
people were wondering: how does not bring tears,


every time I have an onion in my hand I think,
to clean it with my hands,
cut it with a knife, or
punch it with a fist,

the onion in my hands
is waiting

You peel my clothes off
You peel my layers.

Each thinner than the next.
Till you’ve exposed me.

My inner part. My flesh.
Raw, ripe and ready.

Blurry vision,
I’ve made you cry.

Be careful.

My scent will cling to you.
Your fingers.

2020 - day 193

Sunday, July 12, 2020
8:03 AM

Peer Gynt, self aware, self fulfilled troll-like
being ghostly,
projected before me, on the wall that is not there
- callin' all in, all ye outs, in free
- hear ye, hear ye
- the day of judging is this one called today.

See that pile of idle words, find the ones y'know,
use'm t'make sense
since you know sense, on sight, you re
co-gnostically be tuned to the same
signal. {soft call to be true to your self aware

you are so naked

but who knows?
right being you, not me,
selfless lost in the mix,
billions of bits being bet on yet
more
hope, faith and love
these
the trying trinity judging me...

can one tell one story, or must one,
take part in one,
as in the
one story being
the whole of all stories,
yours, as well as mine,
told in words we all know you all know

y'know waddamean.
tell me wha'd I say? Baby, be old,

turn and turn and turn
night to day, in time after time after
ever
ever
ever
being floods reality with
those three triers used to try men's souls,

attention, to the trained, means one thing,
stand up straight, eyes front, hup, now

to the beat march,
as to war...

We are off to meet the Manicheans who
swallowed all the hate once given
follower of Nicolas, in Antioch,

given hatred taken from the revelation,
interpreted by the time
stage acting as now,
the day... back when a hundred monkeys
were imagined able to use
a machine that made sense from chaos, over time.

ሴ

bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding

the dance of graphical images mages form
as words flow from fingers into magical machines
imagined
famously by a Huxley fellow, convinced life happens
on its own volition
using right, as opposed to non working trials
abandoned,
{when the band broke up, 1970, or so}

but the music never died
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding ding ding
writers of types of tales barred from publication,
suddenly appear

as it were from the type of word processors {Wangers}
that one Huxley envisioned responding
to a hundred monks who saw nor heard nor spoke evil
but
tapped, and at each tap a letter formed
to let a sound be heard
no levers stick, no carrying platens signal need to
advance
ding
tic, steadying sounds calling next from a habit
formed to the beat
tic tic tic
squeeks
as common, common conie-like rock squirrels

squeek squeek over the steady everthere sixty cycle
hummm

hear it, little dog, not too far away; adding music
to your day, which
grew from this seed, a little spore of living from
my state of being
informed
this day,

it was mine,
when first I noticed, this being the day.
I have power to live,
today,

I slept through the night, quite comforted, indeed.

Each new day
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
has a rythmn
sometimes it's steady, some itssteps stutter, some  say

sibalent whistles signal something, in the spirit,

sssssss

wait, too late, we made the story and let it fly.

ሴ ሴ

Lessoning myself in social graces,

I wash away my stains, my graffiti screams whispering
see me, see me, see me say

trolls exist in this place. Those who mocked knowing thyself,
and called evil good and good evil,
call fair foul and fould fair,
say sould souls were stolen, when we know the deal:

the price agreed was paid.
I insist enough
insisting for any rational troll,
knowing you are enough is enough, is part and parcel to
the act of being true to you as you
may say you wish you were,
free as truth in ever after...

- ain't nobody got no papers on me....

The sybils all told you , furies may come, but did you imagine


the wise principle thing promised riches beyond rubies,
for what a ruby is worth,
we have no clue.
What's a ruby worth to you?

Are you hungry? Here, eat a ruby.

Auto, self, did, done, act act, ionic become charged, my son.

Mama. ah. the old wounds we cherish.
Times before now, states of decay, shedding of skins to be
wise
as a serpent, like, that's a good thing, as good as
harmless
as a dove, on which poets rise in mind's eyes to see

sources of courses through the shallows near the shore

we all meander nearer now, swamped in ante
cipitation, capere, take it

take it, take it and move on. Live and learn,
follow the flow,
when you are snow, when you are precursor of coal,
go
on, no shortage of power,
like in America, where the power is always on.

Or was always on, in my future,
which is already
your past.
So fast,
but
its all realted,
it is all one idea, in the end, we each are given one last day,

to make up for everything, or make up everything.
The latter, I think,
today.
ሴ ሴ
ሴ

You men ideas, furious in your raging, sing to us of
Gracious slaves of justice,

wake the lost hope of truth in
misformed
messengers whose every efforts fall mortally short.

Leaven a lessoning of habits formed being as a binding,
tied to each part of any whole
re-li-gated, ifthenelse ifthenelse ifthen else
re-legate, make a rule,
you
too
late,
we was e-pluriblized afor you was
aware eveh had begun,

The Pax of Everest living radiant as ever was imagined.
Peace
on earth, good will to the kind having hearing ears and
seeing eyes and slich oily minds,

anointed minded ones,
tested,
proven to have survived up
pop this very mortal moment called today,
to then, when you became dear reader in this medium
of mass messaging
lacking
any organized haeceity of pure me, not thee, not
other wise

ways wise men walk, watch, watch the liars strut,
do wise men walk this way?

Live and learn, we always say,
when given a day,
to think about it,

before dying and knowing, or not, if the point
is ever made, or was
already made before I started trying.

ሴ ሴ
ሴ ሴ ... _ .

You made me cry.

You and your hundreds of brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents, ancestors that I’ve met in the past.

Painful, piercing, burning tears that cause me such pain, I worry I’m allergic to you.

But I keep on coming back to you.

Why?

You would have thought that I’d ban onions from my house. Yell at the top of my voice. ‘Onions be gone!!!’

But I can’t. You provide such an essential element to so many dishes.

Sometimes, I think I’ve got away with it. I’ve peeled you fully. You lie there, waiting to be cut, apparently unarmed.

But then your fury is unleashed as my knife begins to slice. You weep too. Tears of malice, venom and white hot anger. Tears that say ‘You’ve hurt me and I will not let you get away with that!’

Will you tell me something onion?
I know you make me cry but out of your dozen or so relatives, is there an onion that will make me sob?

An onion, where with each layer I peel, it releases in me grief and pain and hurt that I’ve kept locked up for years, and then I’ll finally feel cleansed.

Or did God, in all his wisdom, love and kindness, not create such a beast because he knows that I wouldn’t be able to cope with that much pain?

Instead, he treats me like an onion. But oh, so, so gently does he remove my peel and layers, washing away the hurt and grime with his tears of love and tenderness.