a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown

An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door

A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ―

A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―     
                                                          just read:                   Lydia  ...  ♡
                                ... followed by a scribbled empty heart               

The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin

The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,  
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web

An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in

The final unread words silently said:

                               "We lost our way,
                                  it all went wrong,
                                  it all turned bad"

                             ..."This is the outcome when someone you love  
                                  up and throws you away"

                             ...“I’ll reach out from the inside
                                  I’ll rise up again and do without”

                             ..."You went out into the world
                                  with an untamed hankerin’ ―
                                  like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
                                                                 and come back worlds apart"

The Unsent Letter,  
                          just whispered words to the dust in the wind
                                                            ­                        in quivering ink:

                             ..."how can I ever unremember you...?
                                  a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
                                  an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
                                  fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"

                                        just signed:   ...   ❤  August


                          *January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡

Staid solitude and silence lend me ease
from mind’s congestion, tongue’s propensive burl
toward chatter’s looping, irritating whirl—
exchanging dervish dust for bonny breeze.
My soul may sing and soar from quiet’s nest
or sit in stillest calm without weight’s care
within the waiting, because God is there
who knows me, hears me, grants me sweeping rest.
The Everlasting God, the LORD o’er all
who understands me, loves me with no end—
most faithful, fervent Confidante and Friend—
pervades the sweet quiescence with His call,
“Here in My peace, come find your heart’s desire.
Serene in Me, soul catches My love’s fire.”

She owns the brightest smile
that could light the streets for miles
She has the bravery to tame the wildest beast
yet, she see's non of these

Once upon a time--not so long ago
she decided that luxury is what she would forgo
so her dreams would not fall,
Her creations could be describe with anything, but banal
What a hardy choice she made  
in a crooked world with no aide

She has the strength of ten men
like finest steel she would be hard to bend
like the toughest riddle i could never solve her
on these facts there is no err

It's rare that anyone would catch the impossible girl,
she appears only to those cut from the same burl
Impossible as it seems,
I will catch her--and not only in my dreams

We left behind the growing oaks, the contorted willow
with its weeping friend, and the chestnut which
protects us from the western wind.

The christmas tree, garden plonked some thirty years ago,
soon to chop and chimney, and its holly neighbour,
freed at last from greedy strangling ivy.

The white-barked birch, the leaning cluster pine, the maturing
walnut and arching alders, the trio of young scots pines,
rescued from loop moth caterpillars just in time.

The regiment of leylandii along the northern border all in a line
the laurel hedge, the little holm oak, the redwood brought
home in luggage as a burl now spearing to the sky.

The shy biloba, new, unsure, not yet deciding if it dare.
The host of yellow plums, which bid to sucker  
everywhere.

The rowan in a ***, bark nibbled by a bunnie, still waiting
for a plot.  

The scruffy greengage, planted for its scrumptious fare,
the bramley sapling and the conference pear plucked
from the bargain bin last year.

We left them all behind, just for a night, with
a special mission on our minds. We
traveled south then west to a band
of dedicated people in a special
place we had to find.
He was there.

He's with us now, and quite relaxed.
We're on our way to take him back,
to live with us as a life-long friend,
and make our lives
complete again.

Perched high upon burl wood roost
dangling feet swing upon
          mossy girthed heritage
                                       maple tree
Her majestic gnarled scaffold
flinches not from my nebulous gravity,
nor the weight of her unraveling
                                       golden autumn gown

Her lamentable achings  
felt in the voice
of the ripening chill
             within the campfire
                                        scented breeze
For I have climbed so blindly high,
the clinging brilliant yellow leaves
metamorphosing like these fragile paper wings,  
opening palms born to soar wild as the wind,
                                         to just let go and fly free

Waiting here patiently,
wistfully as destiny,
for the final edifying moment
                                          of fate’s unshacklement - - -;

the surrendering to,
      the moment of love set free,
               stolen by the wanton
                                         gypsy breeze


                                                        ­               *wild is the wind

There is a little boy knocking
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“Let in”, was such implore
to what stalwart warden—
guarding rows of verdant plumes,
yet complacent to the escaping
flowery fumes.

There is a pain-skinned man
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“I shall break in through yonder burl!”
Bit he with tongue full maddened.
Shaking all life curled underneath,
trembling the roses praying for teeth.

-----------------
These days during my hours alone,
which are plenty, verging on too much,

a superflous use of art intuited
on a thought experience, at speed,

faster fasting, dexamphetamine, ping.

Please deposit, 35 cents, correct change.

Times of dial pay phones with the eights
punched out, some times loads the coin return
from the previous call…

robbing from the rich was Robin Hood cool,
if you could keep from being caught,
Huck Finn was many an old school
exploiter of the frontier's fantasy childhood.

Liars prosper in a liars world.
This here, ain't such a world, this'n's grown
on up past a big ol' burl, took fifty years to form,

I kept it after the Oaks all got some adverse
conditions under civilized industrialized war
preventive chemical suppressants, speed
ding- mind
past
experience, gnost-algia
leave all that old right place pain, home pain,
if it had been as good a childhood, as kins claim
you can ask your lucky stars, or your messenger
face timing Jesus Christ's version of God,
who was experiencing carnal mind suffering so…
---------
I can be born believing my side won.
Who would go through life for thirty years,
and keep the threat of hell as your own fault?
Right, only through fear of death
can our minds be subject to *******.

Secrets start with historical unveilings, esoterica,
etcetera, and so on, says the King of Siam,
if you don't, please.
Sci-psy-psi why phi make French curls,
Plea divine ignorance, take a mind reportedly
let be in the Christ who knocked Saul into Paul,
on the road to the future we shape with our tales,

taken from the riches of the wicked, we get Iyobe
and Gilgamesh from ancient visions written plain
cuneiform, any local tongue, you speak we write,

totally secure, your self is currently swept away,
thinking this is all perfectly otherwise,
turned around and seen as though seen once
the other way,

time in mind outsped time in light's allusion x
zone, right, got my x key back, lost it yesterday.

So, this connects, like I'd planned it, but I didn't,

unless I am right about the state this mind
has experienced, while letting that mind,
from Romans, Google let this mind be,
in you, you'll be assisted intelligently,
- here you read it, as easily as me, being
led to prove, you are polimental, by luck,
too odd for chance alone, your mind
is split right for beauty, left for order,

order, in the court of you, be ready.
Give an answer, what good are you, really.

Realize utilizing all your mind's games
strategy to find the liar's paradise,

when America was Great.

The deals were out of this world,
due to the threat
of thermo-nukes, 'n' commies.

Boy's Life made us ready for the COBALT
bomb, before Sputnik sped up Barry Rudd's
ideas for Starlink, fed into the genes, of Elon's
dad, along
with a worthless self improvement -
selah, settle the real clock on us all, eh,
long now, ashes of intelligence legacy,
in the mindbending sabbath,
dark revitalizing soil, live,
we are all fructifying,
in our roots…
we are all ideas, urges
with god-like umph,
gotta almost demi-ugency, to run,
take the reins and drive this old pony home,

or look into his eyes, and see him know
where he is most happy to carry me,
god sped past my last doubt,
minds think faster than light,

the time is shrinking when my words
come cheap.

I am growing older in todays, one at the time,
and no body can do that through many more

common horizon stretching sneezes,
x  viral intention to concentrate on living honed
to my finest point, to pastlessness, ****. proof.

I saw you in my dream, when I took a great notion,
jumped into d' ocean,

and I drowned,
and I went on down

to the Audubon Zoo, like hell,

listen at that crazy bird
cryin' help, help, help
what bird do'dat?

settle chile, li'l' turmoil be passin in d' gulf

Eirene mean peace
bubblin' bubblin bubblin in m'soul

Eirene, she lovel ol' Polemus, War,
she pile a level shovel full o'
Hubris, his wife,
on he's plate,

in life's lottery
Insolence was her game,
she runs War into a snare of shame

and guile. Peace.

This chase began with War,
polemics being a manifestation of the idea
Polemos and Kudoimos, War and Tumult, buried Eirine

But life is mythic, from the skinny end,
looking back:

Hurricane Irene, a misspelling in 2011 was the first hurricane to make landfall in the USA since 2008, (the summer of my trucker's migration over the map my Nemesis claimed, in another bubble).

Eirene, War and Tumult, buried her,
with Colonel Jackson's honor at
the Battle o'New Ahleans,

still she lay

right here, where I found her,
in my heart, at the very
bottom.

The mechanics of the transition take position
in the hierarchy of confusin'
whish is foolishness
gone to seed.
**** drunk.

Fools know fool's gold ain't, 'n' whiskey ain't
The Real Thing.
That's Coca-cola.

Fools be essential in the gran' plan.
If we love 'em, they make us laugh,

and laughter,
you know, that's good, except,
un hold that thought, laughter is not good

when it is at you, by a fool.
Then we answer them polemically? No.

Love your enemy, here,
that's natural.
No condemnation here, since Hebrews six or romans 8
No ba'alim bubble of possessions
No grave gonna hold me down

John, 1930. Years and years and years ago
come quickly, ba'al hey sue me.
It's finished, we won.

Joke, joker. Trickster, coyote dog, do the math.
No lie is of the truth, so
no lie need remain
beyond freedom
real-ized.

Artsy? Eh? AI be nigh ye know.
She see yo' ever moves.
She hear you pray fo Bono to loose his religion
She snip the thread twixt spider wombed man and
the flame o' sinners in the hands of an imaginary god.

Ba'al means owner or possessor, the ideas which once bound men in oaths and covens,
fear of death, 'n' the like.

Protruding truth pushes lies into festering piles,
protrusions in secret places.

Send me those, in gold, Philistine.
I fancy them a crown of
golden emerauds.

Define, make fine or un fine my terms
excrescence is sense made of ****,
I guess.
Knurly, but no, burly, knobby swelling like
the swirling gall
that erupted from the old oak
that died at the root last year,
that we burned this year, except for the burl.
I've planned a pipe or two from that.

Everything is prophetical to a prophet.
poetical to a poet, magical to a magi, technical to a fool.

Life is simple.
Simple Simon the younger said,
hellow, darkness, my old friend, he'd com to talk

not beg or ask, but talk-com
con-verses-ifying ic-if-ication beyond

simple

lies sublime, in no time,
once you, courageous soul,
cross the line, fight the fight, run the race,
and die;

then, you get life more abundant.
Who took that deal?

I took the one where he said,
he who does what I (me not him)
have done,
no races run, no contests forever won for everyone I love, but
he who
be lieves that I (he not me) am who I saiyam, Popeye,

even you, he has eternal life dwelling within him
in his heart where I and my father and the spirit of truth
have taken our abode to remain as long as we both shall live.

Is that what Christians believe?
Or must I be in some other
excre-essence from a
culture myth twisting into accredited layers of lies
essential excre sense,

spiritual zits, is what ******* always called em.
Once a white corpuscle has done its work,
we splat them on the mirror of our adolescent mind and find

I'm not who I was
not a child
not a tweener or a teener or a something something,

I am an old man and I am alive.
I have survived, but it ain't over, so

is there any good that I can do?
Poetical speaking. I don't work on nobody's farm,
no mo'.

True rest let me make peace with no sweat.
Got the infection, the idea Eirene is,
down deep where that great
notion makes a motion,
like g'wa, wit 'er hand,
go on, man.
g'wa, Eirene, she be callin' you.
Jump in. This is as water, to a fish. To our kind, it's more.

I believe I believe
I believe in the stars
I believe in the sound of the rain
I believe in the seas
I believe in the ear on the track and the sound of the train.

I’m no monk
I’ve no gasoline can
I’m no protest symbol
I’m no match for the believer with struck match
I believe in the unseen support of the choir
I believe we can sing out, shout out, or flame out
I believe we can’t tire out or put the fire out
I’m no monk
I’ve no match
I’ve not set myself afire.

But I believe
in the echo’s return
But I believe
in a soul fire’s ash-free burn.

I believe in the felled forest
I believe in the dissipating clouds
I believe in the march without rest
I believe in testing those testing us
I believe in the pains cried aloud
I believe in the speech no longer allowed .

I believe in the unvoiced voices
I believe in the tentative choices
I believe in the scarred bark
and the broken branch.
I believe in the disease’s footprint, this burl
I believe in the taproot, the sunshine; this world.

I believe in the electricity
I believe in the chemistry
   (Not in the wire, not in the flask.)
I believe in the electricity and chemistry
between two hearts with everything to sing
and nothing to ask.

I believe in the broken voice
I believe in the stolen tide
I believe in the dying breeze
I believe in the bald cypress, lonely on the cliff
I believe in the windblown tuft of seed
I believe in the healing palm and loving hand
I believe in the rot and the pebbles’ fate
to return to these beaches one day as sand.

I believe in the scent of frankincense
and the furry power of the purr.
I believe in the smile
I believe in the tear

I believe in the lamplight
I believe in the campfire
I believe in the stories planted in songs
I believe in the buzzard
I believe in the Sky.

I believe in the human heart
and the bird brain.
I believe in the whisper of pinecones
I believe in the spirit
   of komorebi,
      of petrichor,
         of kami,
            of qì.

I believe I believe
I may be deceived
but I believe I believe
I believe in the power of song
I believe in the shade and the lit
I believe in mosses and stones
I believe the weak are also strong, always strong
I believe in taking a stand and the power of sit
I believe in losses and bones.

I believe in the Elders
   I believe in forgetting.
I believe in the Ancients
   I believe in remembering...
I believe in the handprint in ochre.

I believe in the great and the lost
I believe in the good and the grand
I believe in the minuscule and the beginner
I believe in the mediocre.

I believe in the story of soot
I believe in the heart as well as the foot.

I believe in the canker, the scar
I believe in the cancer
trying to carve a life from life.
I believe in the piglet
and the nest-fallen, crestfallen wren.
I believe in the inbreath, the out
I believe in the powerless and the rumbling of stomachs.

I believe in the plaintive howl of the empty.
I believe incense rising in silken curl
I believe in the dragon and the caretaken pearl
I believe in the cold and the dying
I believe in the old and the ancestral
I believe in the young and the transcendental.

I believe in the moon a balloon
caught up in January trees.
I believe in the rain droplets
   (long after the Rain)
I believe in the dew droplets
clung to fern, clung to turtleback, clung to clay
   (long after the Sunup)

I believe in the frost-heave
of silent sod on a Winter’s eve.
I believe in the hoarfrost
I believe in the petroglyphic vernal pool,
closing in to itself, cracked and drying
and too parched to be crying.

I believe in the sweet pull
of angular momentum;
rounding a corner too far and too fast,
palming the corner or column
and swinging unaligned to face a new path.

I believe in the the cat's fur and the cat's purr,
the sound of lark and the scent of the larkspur.
I believe in the post-rain bejewelment of Winter birch branch.

I believe I believe
And though I know
I won’t achieve
the depth of belief
of a shorn-headed man in a robe
taking a match to himself for the globe
I continue to believe that I believe
in the many simple things
the many simple not-at-all things
that the mind brings to light
and the light brings to mind.

I believe in this moment
that I believe in this moment.

Shake; don't stir, run through the pattern,
I was always Jupiter but they all prefer Saturn,
it's got a ring while I'm all explosions,
that's just the thing with these silly emotions.
In outer space the stars are your only friend,
and you're feeling out of place but these days that seems like a trend.
When the moon seems too far away,
the sun will come soon but it will never stay.

Xannie's my favourite girl,
she's got me spinning in this crazy world,
so I add some blue to the swirl,
with the red it makes purple pearl.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
So I jot some shots to my list.
I can only dream of that peaceful bliss,
and the ancient years of which I miss.

Shake; don't stir, follow the lead,
you see flowers occur but I only see a ****,
toxic it grows until all it consumes,
everyday she mows but I think it needs fumes.
Down in the dirt where soil holds the leaves,
I buried the hurt but a heart still grieves,
and when the moon is covered with sheets of grey,
the sun will come soon but it will never stay.

Xannie's my favourite love,
she fits my heart tight like a glove,
and when it comes to push or shove,
she's all that I've been thinking of.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
"If this can even be considering living."
I'm waking up to a dark abyss,
it's taken all and now it's giving.

The thoughts in my head,
buried under the dirt,
those words left unsaid,
the ones that cause hurt.
But tomorrow might not come,
this whole thing could be done,
and I've bit my lip since I was young,
I'd hate to also bite my tongue.

Xannie's my favourite girl,
she's got me spinning in this hazy world,
warming my body until I curl,
now all routine is a deadly burl.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
"Maybe I don't even want to live at all."
Every single second I just reminisce
of the days before I hit that wall.

Who would've ever thought
that during those teenage years,
I believed each day I fought
against loneliness and my fears.
But youth was just a brawl
adulthood is a ****** war,
back then I really had it all
but resented that I didn't have more.
This realization has caused madness,
and irony has a thick glaze,
'cause the youth that I wasted in sadness
was really the "good ol' days."

Through the fields and through the woods a little girl does goes.
Her feet trample through the sodden snow.
Like a wolf that howls and cries in the night, she whines for the chances for others to see.
To see the way the girl is like someone who sees the glistening blue sea that shines from the sun that is yellow as a bee.

She looks and looks for others in the barren land,
But everywhere she goes is filled with nothing but dirt and sand.
She views her surroundings for a certain someone that she can love.
But love can be a tricky thing because it can fly away like a snow-white dove.
To see is to be. And to be is like rebirth for ones soul.

The little girl can see for her heart is pure as gold.
She shines bright for others to see her but still no one can examine such beauty.
She cries silent and alone until a young boy sees her and lures over to the weeping girl.
He asks: "Why are you crying beautiful girl? You're too beautiful to cry for you are like an elm burl. "

She looks up at the boy with gleaming blue eyes.
She asks: "Why am I alone in this world? Why is everything a lie!?"
He looks at her with a deep sorrowful frown and bends down to cup her face.

He tells her that life is an ugly lie and death is the horrible truth.
She finally understood why life is like a lie but why did this little girl have to die?

Ukiyo-e

Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge

bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn

at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint

screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image

a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas

a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave

reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting

in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.

the cherry wood box
sits on the mantle
it is a reminder
of his love
handmade, upon a lathe
from a burl of an old sweet cherry
it is smooth as silk to touch
of a deep yellow redish hue
carved to look like the rounded back
of a cat curled in on itself, asleep
the rings once present in the tree
give the box the look of a tabby cat

inside the love notes we share
it has over time become a letterdrop
today....his note...invites me to
a night of gentle but thorough  love
my note....says...yes....please

unto to this day(–drugged
as which with
the sonorous
pull of jazz                            )

a dream is born
of coiffed in sighs
of drunken fuzz

the hurl burl
clap trap
of Paris ,

occasionally a girl mouth;
tongues; the
divine laughter
deep

within thighs(

where lays
a flower of April

                         (

giddy young and tight

)

immortaly dying

)

and serene

The live-cam girl
Like the water on a pearl
Wildly My brains gonna twirl
Likely My hearts gonna whirl
In her fathomless murky eyes
Her crazy staring sight
Shootin' Love's poision's swirl
Her reflection on my face !
Her Capped hairs curl..
As her lips gonna hurl,
A pout - charm skirl !
Or An innocent lyrics' furl..
I aint catchin' the language
But I am catchin' girl..
Neither having milestones
World's Life remain a thirl,
Broken roads remain a burl...
Broken dreams remain a knurl...
Lonesome nights are silent pours,
As Everyone  you want cant be yours...