#posed
all the others laughed themselves to death,
The Survivors of the Seventies, never did catch up...
One Laughing Survivor, from the spring of '68
who walked to Chicago, just to see the Field Museum
and verify the earth was rotating, as rumored
I I I ai wished away a truth I lied about
I got saved,
and became a celibate monk,
for about twelve years,
did you ever do that,
you, the ghost of some 27er out on the edge,
wishing you, too, had survived the change,
when being stupid got too hard to maintain,
when being unable to read the esoteric comments
when being ignorant of reigniting reasons used in war
Pride in pulling out a plum
two dozen starlings broken down and baked
in to an if-inity pi with old singles from AM days
driving east on I-40
remembering music stuck in my mind, from ever ago
Just, walk away Renee, I was remembering you,
just the other day, I remembered your sister, too…
and all the Catholic girls who rode bikes,
around the tennis courts and smiled at little boys,
impressed by the ******* beneath the smiles, back when
Past the past, only what I am can ever change,
what I was is fixed, supposed to be,
as it happens when it gets read back on Judgement day,
every word used wrong, as with arrows… shot
into the sky for a warning, did you see it, that night,
ai ai ai, we were stuck in Santa Clara, east of Alameda,
and we had a little bottle of Genuine Orange Sunshine,
the January '70 batch, that mysteriously went with me,
the night the librarian went to jail, hell of a sight, that night,
the only thing a man could do… the right thing,
do you remember that month, that year,
did your world change, or was it just ours, we
the people alienated by grace of ignorance
from the national shame of My Kai, known
to have occurred, while Lt. Calley was possessed,
with a hate for any ****** Lovin' ***** down the road
in old My Lai, and nobody knows why, but the fool did lie
to the truth he could see, man, these are other people, too.
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 4:43 PM UTC
pretty eyes and endearing posture
a white dove following a ****** vulture
sweet and tender
no one better
pretty lips that i intend to kiss
for hours and hours, decades of flowers
sweet and tender
nobody better
pretty hands that grip my skin
wrap around my body like a ribbon
sweet and tender
no timeline better
pretty person, pretty words
i will work to earn your smirk
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 4:53 PM UTC
Mystic musterion
intricacy, weaver's lessons,
ever more tedious and finer
wearing away old layers of lies,
a little here,
a little there,
all the room
in the world
to spread
the whole cloth
of single strands,
the whole duty
of the master weaver,
the whole work
of one's seasons tediums
time's
turns
into next seasons phases preparing,
toilsome and wearisome as it must be,
but
by the very nature
of naked man, made
long common quotidean
threading of things in patterns,
most time consuming practical use
of time,
spinning and spinning and spinning,
already cut and rhetted and carded
and combed
to full fluffy flaxen strands,
twisting and twisting and twisting
in time,
to the first story grandfathers remember,
the memory
of parcel twine, how handy
that stuff was, and baling wire, howdy
do, that was useful material,
always have some,
on a journey…
You maybe,
never baled hay,
as an old whole ghost's muser,
in the spirits gossamerisms
of truth's coverings
in fine twined linen, delicately
tugged flaxen thread divinely
hooked and looped fibers
practically perfect
for making strings
--- but making things, and watching things
being made, art performance,
at 4x quick
post 2025 worth of ra' attention
prepaid experience imaginable once
entertaining demonstrations costing days,
days, and days, of focused aimed know how,
and -- awareness,
wearing consciously, how
which tools uses must have once been practiced,
grooved habitual routes to the effectual prayer,
points and edges honed to tedious-most tasks,
using utmost point
to point
at prepositioning
synchronized realization,
at just right, feel,
agree,
time immemorial, feel, it snaps
in place,
-- when after ever before,
or just whenever, once
the peace maker faces the hero,
the bullslayer up against
the ox maker all ready
wearing gnoshit grins
winners woof, crosses
losers tight tuned warp…
and we are back
at that rocking chair,
pushing the piston, pulling a vacuum,
consequently lifting exhaust valves,
in right order, letting loose lost time…
free
for wondering what ifery in,
while redeeming the worth
of the rocker./ already
gone silent, mere mind
reading fragments
from weavers
aloud
to the spinners
great notion
in season,
fashion has all
in denim now, eh
weary mind needs a peasant's
experience, bone deep,
to imagine weary
we have lost many peasantries,
few weavers remain, willing
to sit and rock, singing
some old radio tunes
where once were word weavers,
earnestly adapted
to the art
of making effort effects
do be lieve just so is so sometimes, perfect
and close enough,
both
become mechanized
in order
to relate,
the musterionic constancy
of posed
to be ability,
see, selfie, ah, we,
we see us all
from Saturn, daily noticed
in my house, we look
from as far away as possible
and figure the odds
of your taking ownership,
wordlessly, infancy, illiterate
in times readiness,
I know this idea, yes, whole
alike and not alike, heads tails edges,
terms, borders between all and nothing at all
in other words,
same inside, same outside,
as above, so below, is what trees show known,
however, whenever fructification buds show
now
spring time
of year living duties did and do depend,
on when which branches bloom, somebody alive
does know how food gets
to the grocery store…
somebody alive
now, does all the planting and reaping and peeling
and cooking and putting
before us
to chew and swallow and know,
if you choke, you die, so
chew slow, you live
this way… not right away, so
zehr slooow
mindwerks inner wille zur machen
instant in season out of season,
so global are we now,
as those
with plenty idle time redeemed reading
most abstract ideas dementia imagined makes
we have machinists now, threaders and tighteners,
toters and totalers accounting
for cost
in misery,
due
to you doing nothing but
read my minds wonderings
this whole while,
lazy rocking while reading
as we all spin,
at a rate a little faster
than a thousand miles in an hour,
and, if we were
to believe, deep kid oath level,
sworn, aliegiance
to something publicly relational
by witnesses confirmed, verb act done
--
believed
Christmas
celebrated the peace,
the message makes when taken
in peace,
and given to us as users of air,
as planet sharing neighbors
with inalienable rights
to reason
with holy business,
to earnestly contend
for the faith
of a mustard seed, ready
to be messed
with genetically so far past Darwin's
bulldog's levered pivoting power slamming
letters
in inks sublimated
into silken ribbons,
keyed at upto a hundred wpm,
read now at five words per minute,
-- a hundred monkeys, and never a stuck jam
of keys struck all
at once, as any non patiently trained typist
most assuredly
did know,
so common,
while imagining companions,
such minds do sort
on ****** nationalized ontologies.
Just my type, scary as Virginia Wolf,
but after Xanax, mellow momma.
How comes and knocks why
through a loop
where there is a hook
just when needed a stitch
in time, hero action micro deed,
taken, made redone
done, sew on…
with miserly smiles,
promising God is watching,
be good, easy, believe,
God hates lazy ********
but, Truth, as preserved
to be conserved, duty wise, mine, chosen,
I took the long way
around the mountain,
meandering in flux
as feels right
downhill,
I followed a stream I
think I imagined drinking from once,
in Holbrook, Arizona.
No, Wickenburg, right.
Famous as the river Lethos, but
Hasayampa water make you
only tell lies,
therefore
effectually eventual splitting spirit's true
from spirit's false, mere made up test ifs,
when you eat fish,
spit the bones, with watermelon, spit seeds…
during late stage maturity among mortals…
ways have been made knowable,
how sacred arts
present worth
with lavishes so thin,
takes flies eyes to see lines
divine intuited beauty knowable, except,
the fundamental
what we are
has
being as
a story told us, all,
during our subjection
to information compression,
allowing multifunction parallel processing
in no time.
----------- 2025 from go, new time, new reason, peace
made and fixed held
through hell
and back
in time
where no peace was, my
mind sees that peasant's horse,
too noble a steed, stranded
for any but the best
of hearts, lost
Bucephalus, old spirit,
pull the plow, pull the cannon,
come pull all us attention payers
to vivid big screen attention paying all
our wages,
in the current republic cave of
Socratic Platonic bemusement
- those initiates listening knew,
- those agents serving muses telling
- these listening invitees, now, turn and burn
- threaten those given God's vengeance,
as life long spirit
thirsty for knowing why after all.
After living while better folks didn't.
After inspecting each stone
in my tower,
as I breathe
and live behaving
alchemically as if imagined just so
happy with life and liberty and tools
being actively haps pursuers as we may,
we logical anomalies allowed reasoning,
teleological whying trials all some how
passed and representative as normal,
squared away, compassing gamma,
wise, back
to Enheduanna, grand whole
so told, perfect,
to the letter, each time,
so told, perfect, without fail,
to the letting
go, get on,
tell it
like it is
true, if money can fix it, it's not God's job.
may recall, the horse struggling in concertina barbs
between trenches somewhere in Alsace or Lorraine,
the war to end all wars… was over before
the author's father died… this idea, the authority
allowing living words… viral letters letting sense
trickle down, down
to the bottom,
first undeniable truth any willing warrior believes,
will we define our terms,
assuming usage our right, our ritual considerations,
we work day to day, quotidian tedium to some,
social fashioning consciousnesses to others.
Information, once published instantly,
as when all are made knowers, once,
truly tested, bested and bettered, after
ever
being cognizant of the tech teachers use,
naturally, misuse and abuse are exactly evil,
be therefore as ware, made
to handle problems
in chthonic holes
according to the relative coexistance
of us as users of these exact same words
to form these exact same
cogitations, at one and the same
instance, as we words once writ remain
the same idea we were once you knew
the class of magi, those advisors of bullish
summer gangs of boys, sent off seeking wives,
seek a prudent wife,
seek an Enheduanna, or a Jael, be humbled
as she possesses your very soul, and leaves
your spirit cheering, you know
we can spin all day long, we can even, look,
imagine,
a rocking chair, see, keep on, hush,
little baby, don't you cry,
listen to the grandmas laughing,
way up yonder after history you'll never
pay up then and there, after all's said
all's just said,
so, that's all.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 4:15 PM UTC
Never trust a photograph;
That smile is nothing but posed;
Those eyes hide much pain and tears;
One cannot see behind closed
Doors and for the many years
Of life beyond that sly face
Is the soul that fell from grace.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC