birches and tastsy jerky wood.  resin in the immediate shubbary.... and dust and cobwwebs growing adjacent to the jerky wood.  Myraid of birds, ranging from small birch-types to crows.  A lingering dominant hawk.  A giant possum crossing between borders carrying unborn infants.  Dusty walls with abandonded spiderwebs- insect carcassases dangling, still.  Pool motors revving in every direction lets of a subtle hum that compliments the planes descending and ascending oer-head

the water is grainy yet cool and healing.  the sprinklers function at midnight and sometimes on the weekend.  Maintinance trucks, expensive commuter vehicals, modest vehicls, unmanned vehicles, arrowhead trucks, macdonalds trucks, safeway trucks....

the earth is still wheaty and chalky adjacent the jerky trees, the jerky trees have little hairs and appetizing off red color, the bark saddles off with grace and with a satisfying tare.

each day is new.
each life is measured re-ified or ified,
--- but 1.0 can't think past named things and their uses.
--- 2.0 must have an intuition of good begetting
that includes 1.0 gnosis of aim in an immediate way.

Oh. Here's a map.
Like Disneyland as a mall...
or DC with the alu-mini-um pyramid on top.

A schema instantiation, says the blithering flow
charting our course to
sapins sapiens augmentatious
It's obvious,
the children shall all be 2.0 in 1.0 mechanical material;

the tree of knowledge was all inclusive.
hence, the POV development circuits
are cross sired-wired dialecticalishit

seen innerish, not clearly but
seen, men as trees sorta thing.
not blind
but not visionary in a professional
TED talk worth
attending to after eight straight.

The time on earth is variable.
The cost/value of a duration is perimental,
be
coming here
being still
unborn in silken wombs
--- chirp

there are ground squirrels in California
which chirp
incessant chirp chirp chirp with

enough variety in volume tone and frequency,
to make old Morse Code five-letter code groups
come rattling through the radioman's head.

killit.
no, focus, do some meditatishit mind over world,
silken swaddles to moth or...

squeeking wheel gits the grease.
grease it, no, go to the squirrel and trigger its
cog that has no
cognition save intuition. Click.

look it in the cute little squirrel eye.
see it see you, say to it, shut up.

it don't blink. it don't shut up.
bold rodent,
I AM MAN. I shout, it squeeks,
gnoshit,
no cognitive over ride of intuition to fear the man,
is thinkable.
It is a squirrel.

It don't mean nothin'. A curse o' apophrenia on ye.

Bubbles in bubbles, foaming Being
Thoughts resolve to gearish
imaginations
cogs and gears and wheels whirling through some
filtering of needless data informing points
big
number
dimensional, scale and distance, durational
direct
measure in systems
for value and balance,
with no true vacuum, but the idea,

the null-set. Where never happens and nothing is.

We twist hard here.
The torque is what jects
the ob at the sub, via a
mechanical cam-shaft, pusher-puller-twister system
mit ein trigger, which we
click.
Think.
Who is writing my part in the book of life?
I asked me, you are not here, but
in my mind I hear replies more wise than I was
inclined
to imagine
a common man of common gifts can be for
believing
magic has always been
what magi know how to do for goodness sake.
Magi. Heros.
Not a no knack common man, wombed or un.

Peace nullifes any reason War-corroded minds can
calculate,
the numbers prove it all. Count the stars.
Use your augmented eyes, search your global memory,

run the numbers, nullify time with eternity,
subtract the works of darkness,
(don't delve into the details, you can imagine hell some other time)

----
A Valis idea, stuck between my chew-eschew-awarea
P.K. ****, trips, bags, and scenes
as became the cliche'.

Let 'em imagine any thing, define the terms and force
agreement for access.

Insider wannabe, do you agree, come and see? Or
do you dare to challenge

the common sense of all man kind as represented in Christ
of Nicea and Abeka Books, from Pensacola, Florida,

Whoa, rock the box, make bubbles cavitate the prop,

spinnin wheels like the Bismark's final bow.

--- i'm un comfortable and I don't know why.
--- a feeling
--- those are mocked as meaningless, by apathetic slobs.
--- so easy being a ***, ethos pathos logos, ***
--- comic relief
--- in mortal moments of turmoil and confusion as things are stirred.

All that could be shaken, was shaken.
All that could be strained, was strained.
All that mercurial messages could mean, was meant.

We lie in wait, wishing cogs and cogitate was as symbiotic
a thought as we thought while thinking

earlier
Art is artificial intelligence. Imagine that. A.I.

Demiurge, my cultural osmosis of vocalizings,
left me thinkin' a demi urge
is a little urge, a diminutive urgekin,

urging me to be
creative, let that lil' light shine, Marjoe

these being public displays at the edges of some of the bubbles,

bubs, some kid just shook my bottle

to pretend the wine was moving of itself, making turmoil

careful as in accurate art-iculation, this is not realist materialist
gasping
grasping for
dignity, stalwort, courage, responsibility

we are yet legions, industrial models
used to build swords with motors,
when we come to America, we join the unem.
We, the people's industrial war complex, merge
with the abandonded gods Neil Gaimon pointed out,
formin a loose unity of spirits, engines and factories and artisans

self-defined, an unum from many, on a national scale,

Da deme demotic da-emonic conspiracy of steam, incorporated
with dwarven knackeristics of old,
fur usin' Hermes as a river to call gold to our rule maker,
food bringer, h'laf weard, Lord of the loaf.

Listen,

illiterate heathen, my Grandma said we'd be if we did not know the story
after hearing it told three times.
Third time's the charm.

We were weighing your worth,
got hooked on a breeze from the broom sweeping this
pile of parts and pieces of what you imagined being worth

that's not much more worth than one in eight millions of millions,
of you kind, unless you earned admitance to the inside

externalization of imagination
pro-ject that on next---
stop. Imagine all that
and guess... ob or sub... its your roll.

I'm the door, says the door. I have no key, it says to me,
come and see,

the progress regress con tro tra la la la

That rascal who just wondered by on Youtube

com a part mentalized, an urge to count the cost

ungrateful and thanksgiving
curse and bless
sweet and bitter from one fount, that ought not be, but
it is possible, all things are,
it can be evil, but
on
discovery
such a curse is not worse than miss fitting a taken point,

we ethos pathos logos ourselves, we say, my domain,
bad
poetry can have good ideas in it. Ah, I see.

Humble your self under the mighty hand of that which has been
given the joystick,

eh, what if a lie is running your ranking order?
careful articulation?

Jackson Pollack step up, this carefulness of art,
answer that for me.

Ah, the hero, around whom thy sun wraps, what haps ever after,

you get old and the world changes against your wish.

do you believe in God.
I do, the one Jesus believed in,

by my leave, my letting a true thing be

happily, after a life of seeking for another path.

The earth is round.

Are there ideas that cost, in the use?
Is there an ancient of days account
of idle words

verbs given for acts, as seen done, from an earthling POV
idle verbs that call no act
lest the cost come clear, daemonitic tech that seems magic,
blessing cursing and claiming to heal, all
mere art... the ability to be like Jesus, that knack

there was a wise man, as he was sweeping his way one day,
his daemon, who had the assignment,
reported finding meaning
in being filled
to over flowing, have you boasted that? Never?

Did you ever shed a tear for another's pain?

You know, pathos, commonality of us all, or you know
not
and the sufficiency of evil is calling you to be the inner hero,
making room for truth
in a heart fed lies from the womb.

After all is said and done. Believe the truth makes free
upon the point of knowing the story.

Love is a verb I seldom use. I dared redeem it for future use.
It cost me dear reader.
there are verbs we abuse at a terrible price. Paid. Not by me.

Show's over, Radioman morphed to Grandpa and Oliver
watching the real world turn beneath the sun,
relative to an earthling POV. The day's sufficiency of evil all swept away.

You're done roaming and playing around
Living on your own now no friends for comfort
Retreating inward in your new studio apartment
Where your friends have abandonded you for good
"good ridence!" they say as they turn thier backs on you and leave

Must feel comforting knowing you're no longer living out of a suitcase
Safe and sound with your face on the ground
You're finally sober 
Bouncing from friend to friend until you could stand on your own
You learned from the best, the ones who abused you
Now you stand alone because you abused the ones who were the best to you

the hair
the hair
it moved back and  forth

it covered
and  revealed

enhanced and concealed

what was fake
and what was real

abandonded
and controlled

up
down
shorn
crowned

it shimmered
with every
beam
of light

caught every ray
and captured every
imagination

causing a movement
from deep within
that could not be stopped

A child of abuse
Since she was three years old
She's lost in the darkness
Silent and cold

Aware of her surroundings
Unable to speak
A child full of life
Now, humble and meek

Abandonded at birth
Given to a stranger
No one to protect her
From the imminent danger

Her tears never heard
In silence she wept
Never telling anyone
Of the secrets she's kept

Her dreams now forgotten
At the tender age of ten
Afraid of the dark
Her nightmares begin

Where is the hero
To rescue this child?
Lost and broken
Her innocence defiled

In a small glass container
She catches her tears
Proof of her torment
Her silent years

You stepped in, you stepped out
but I didn't think it would end
not, this way
not in a way, that makes us enemies
makes me good and you evil
tears me apart
but leaves you
unscathed

But you weren't ready,
for a love like mine
your hollow bones couldn't bare the weight
of my heavy hardened heart
so you fled
and left me abandonded

Alone again,
I'm left trying to turn back the clock
on a love that was forgotten
while I wade patiently,
in a mess I made all on my own

for
A noticeable change in the moon,
You actually made me grieve.

You actually made me cry, for once
And feel the emotion that pervaded me for at least
Four moons and months.
How I cried thrice alone,
and twice with your friends,
Who so surprisingly took my side for once.

What was worse than the time I snuck off with your best friend?
And we did the ONETHING that still tarnishes my reputation.

It was worse when you ****** your ex,
who you said to not worry about,
"I just go to the gym with him"
all behind my back, with the knife you
gave me for my eighteenth, and said to protect you with.

I used the knife to distress my pants and cut tobacco leaves,
and to uncouple the filth,
the blacktar poppy from the filthy phone screen,
where after you uncoupled me, I
Looked for filth in my friends,
who still had boyfriends.





I thought I would be alone, still.
And after two months you'd accept a desperate plea of mine,
and it would all be back to normal,
except for the engraved back of my mind,
which I could patch up for you.

But you wouldn't do the same,
hold everything I ever do against myself against me.
I'm not a ****** or a thief anymore, contrary to your thoughts.
I'm as good as I ever was, and I love the friends you abandonded for temporary relief,
And they love me, because you abandonded me for,



temporary relief.

When you stop mourning over your biological family's absence
You'll come to mourn our collective absence.
Because only a few treated you like family, rather than friend.

And even if some forgive you,
you've made me forgive my shutout hate,
welcomed back, forever against you,

If I die first, I don't want you to see me
If you die, I won't come see you.

There's not much left,
Pieces left strewn
And abandonded
In all of the places
I've ever died

There's not much left,
But you can have this heart
If you would like.

It isn't much,
But it sings in the thunder
And it is all I have left
To give.

-cjm-

a sign outside reads stay fresh, and

it's like "got milk" so I'm forced to take this seriously

It's painted over a brick wall, tan, gray, mostly tan

and adjacent to tthe wall are a prius, a nexus, a bmw and on the far side typical cream van, not white.


there is a bookeeping and taxation building that is now in ruins, remains from a few decades past, probably owned by the state with no useful occupation, yet.  

hobos swear at each other in the street, over bananas and marbarlos and gatorades

Far adjacent, another abandonded building.  Could've been a school

Stay fresh, thank god I have my milk

id spend nights exploring the hell
id been abandonded in

the dragonflies went south
away to hotter climes
to warm of air
with mighty wings
and unto clearer skies

where a dragon might
alight
and float above alone
in never ending skies
away to shine and flutter wings
to make a wind its name




and find abandonded dragon lair

with ever weathed wing
with wind to ride and sing
trivaile of small and tempest call
of all such small a thing.

If the cold pavement knew you so well
it would know that your name spelled disaster
and would not hold you up
as you fell upon it
a broken needle in your arm

but i know your name
it once spelled redemption
a curse'd spell that once cast would creep upon sinners
and render them asunder
so that they might begin to beg for mercy

and as the mites might crawl through your ear
so must your name bore itself into our brains
like so many maggots that feast on our memories
that repeat back and forth
until their origin, distorted
become more lie than story

you could line up the alphabet
repeat it upon itself
until your name appeared against it's actual meaning
track marks and broken houses
stained couches and crying mothers
a dream left abandonded

The faucets in Lisbeth's bathroom leak.
She soaks up the saltwater;
Hard cotton on shea butter skin.

A lens, everyone, no one, Lisbeth
Shines fluorescence on her starving sorrow;
Examines the gnawing.
She wonders how long she can survive on her own flesh.
Does not ask for food, but for advice.
How do the rest of us do it?
Subsist on ****** thumbs and bitten tongues?

Lisbeth, we start within.
There is a black hole growing in my gut,
Born of the desperation and repression I have harbored
Since the day I broke into this world, ****** and ravenous.
The devouring is slow,
But, one day, it will swallow me whole.

They will bury me in the weeds of an abandonded corn field.
And my hunger will slowly eat the world too.
Because I was starved.
Because I was not loved.
Lisbeth, you are hungry.
Let me feed you.
I will love you.

"Lost At Sea"

I'm hidden behind this wall, hoping it won't crumble and fall.
I've built it both wide and tall, but is it strong enough at all?
I want to feel safe and help guard against the dark.
Let my close ones have refuge, from that sickened bark.
But ****!, someone left the back door open, barely ajar.
My fortress now falling inside out, what was this all even for?
Betrayed, abandonded at my worst, it's all I ever see.
I just want to be the best version of myself I can actually be.
But I'm getting sick of being stabbed in the front repeatedly.
From the other blind wandering, and I can't even get angry.
Because as blind as I still am, I understand where they are at.
I'm steering my own ship, with it's own blurry map.
My telescope's been lost to sea, I can't see the next trap.
The Loch Ness Monster, The Kraken, or any other crap.
My ship's heading to destruction, and I can't see ten feet ahead.
It grows harder to breathe, can't remember what 'ole Davey said.
I'm loosing ground, as I try to rest for even a minute in bed.
Destined for his locker, cursed with sickness, never dead.
I'm stuck disfigured from this entrapment, I'm now just a beast.
Judged from only the outside, it's all that's seen in the least.
They throw away the book I am because my cover has a crease.
Is this the way life as I know it, will always be for me?

D. Scaggs

"Two"

it is quite hard,
but rewarding in persistance against lie,
to not have other's words write you.

a slandered abandonded mold
that might once fit
their own ego.

i stray in wilds of unknown
feeling grace of but wind and what stands in wind.
no serial fabrication, but chance's kiss.

grace of my own will: an energy's moral compass i still know to be aligned true.

is there something wrong about finding beauty in a flower even if it's fake ?
it surely wasn't placed there for me in your abandonded car.
and there are some budding white ones nearby.
I don't even know, I can hardly keep track of anything nowadays.
I'm a fish-head or some pontificating ape or just some bozo you might hate, love, or ignore, or even might be scared of.
J can't even tell, no not one bit.
Maybe my face is just one faded memory waiting to be rediscovered;
maybe I've lost you so many days that I haven't even kept any count.