Bless my soul,
I did not know, indeed,
I doubt you know much better,

the degree of not knowing general
ignorance of the whole why Jesus died.

But the trusted if he was real, he said,
in red, Father for give all who know not
nor ever did since I was called Daysman,
know what they do nor why, thus he
submitted, indeed, to make the peace,
please release the holy terror, exhale

and inhale and find a core where we
all breathed a bit of the peace we
agree we let be, freely my peace lasts,

yes, my love, through growing old,
love and peace eventually merge,

ayahuasca vine of beautiful adversity
climbing arbole vitale, up to the sunshine

warming February where we ignore
for pity sake the fool on the hill

thinking it wise to make peace,
wishing breaths, hoping helper breaths,

assisting intellectual lifts

up
from the bog,
whither big logs go to rot,

and feed a very rare toad,

who sweats DMT, you kiss it.
Lick your lips.

That's what the locals told Grimm.

Or it's the way locals tell the same rot.

Many things to think

about at on in out
after wherein here after

great negative debt in truth
taking burden grievous for naught

I have made up my mind that now

I am among the happiest of men kind,
a discerner of the essential other wise

when the radio waves, across the
solmization spectra
sibilance
signal
sing do re mi
I have returned, to the joy
of my child hood, the grin giving

my intentions grief, ai, did I laugh,
to myself, indeed, we did, I laugh

you know more than Galileo, you do,
but that won't buy a piece of gum,

here's where I invested my two cents,
circa 1965,

every time I find a penny,
bright nor shiny I don't mind,

I jus' usem t'buy me gum.

Bazooka, for the fortune
considered sidereally accurate,
kept me from being a nervous ***…

Sleeping Prophet, feed a mind
some Edgar Cayceian Atlantean lore,
spiritual convergence around 1851,

a surge, saccades, jolts, on century clocks.

In one hundred years,
mankind's native Earthian memory
of causes and reactions and accountings,

used to…
remind us when we read, today, is there,

here was earlier, even if it had been today.

Tom Campbell and I existed simultaneously
I never heard of him, then I did,

perhaps the thinking let be thunk,
sends a steady message making peace
resonate morphing clouds into temples, there

a thinkably easily entreated point on Wisdom,
applied as first principle,
imperative, per haps
used happily,
today.

sadness is the bane of life, yet it tastes so bittersweet
it becomes addictive, leaving you feeling incomplete
so many dig for drama, only to be left sad and depressed.
but isn't that the point of all this attention gathering?

The words won’t string together
I type and type
Backspace. Backspace.

Thoughts pour like a waterfall
They plummet to the bottom.
Splash. Splash. Plunk.

Tears fall like love
A girl falls in love. The guy never catches.
Thunk. “Ouch”

Who Would’a Thunk It?


Who would’a thunk it?

Fifteen books

Sliding piecemeal into six…

Other’s bibliographies

Whose credit lists go on and on

In pages worn

By use unceasing.


Here sit I

Noon sun high,

Ablaze with phrase

That turns into (most likely will)

Ideas instilled

With rhyme and substance,

Probing, pressing cortex’ lobe

Gushing, pushing out the job.


Who would’a thunk, in any case,

That it would form the base of hours

Spent each day as child’s play?

(Except that I’m grown up!)

Who would’a thunk it?


Who Would’a Thunk It? 8.16.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

Thunk; informal or humorous past a