You speak with the effortless air
Of somone who has spent many nights
Dwelling upon the awaiting conversation
Premeditating every move
You have your lines memorized by heart
Yet your heart is not in them at all
The words that tumble from your lips
Have been ****** dry of their raw emotion
Leaving behind the empty skeleton of conversation
Which you have so diligently perfected
So much so that when your voice rings back in your ears
You can hardly recognize it as your own
For the voice inside your heart is not universally appealing
Nor does it allow others to twist it so it fits their insight
Suppressed by the drone of causal conversation
It remains silent and untraceable
Lost beneath your faded words

You can stop the time effortlessly,
And make everything else lose motion;
In this dimension of two possibilities,
I would break the laws of constants,
To rise to this rare occasion,
While I helplessly but mindfully,
Keep falling into your machinations,
Because you're the only variable,
Making sense in this causal prediction.

You can state all of your demands,
While seemingly making a point;
I'll supply smiles to your shenanigans,
And validate all these assumptions;
Let's meet halfway and find the perfect joint,
To sieze the meaning of our existence,
Without a care to this world's boring bustles;
All the other factors can wait in line,
Because you're the missing piece to my puzzle.

They sought to invoke the midas Chassidus
(striving for the most pious behavior possible)
-------------
So, beyond the beanie,
we put loyalty to those who wear it,
holding rude pen from local feathers
or reedy grass,
feel the reason
writing
calls readers, you
can do this, causally becoming aitia,
the blamed doer,
amen,
I said that, so… I suffer… what, waiting
is, suffering only means, wait, or

put up with it. Art intuits recollection
of functional whole systems, means
for prying flat stone, sand stone,
ready to be made ready for use,

usual duty, any
given day, wake up, measure up,
make day mean all of it, as it occurs

around,
bubblewise,
along, riverwise path, ruts
made from graves, with their ends
kicked out.

Ghosts of all we ever wished we knew,
we all, stretch, and taste our teeth,
sniff and scratch,
listen for wind, look for shadows dancing,
seeing the moss gone dark again,
after these past few rainy days
----------------

From inside, within-
without walls, bubblewise,
imperfectly spherical,
no sharp edges,

-in being, not out, not ex-cluded
in-cluded, clouds or clues, referentially?
You know what I mean? Clusion closure.

Boxed-in, floor and roof and walled, inclosed.

Flaw, there
in the gem, a bubble, yes, in the lens.
A blind spot…
minor blemish, or, reaching back to magic,
allowing magical thinking, distant causal agencies,
words intuned to old rythms,

the ump ump song, or the umph umph song,
pigeon strut, or the ****'s walk,

old hawk, old crow, eeee-haw! We saw
we saw, we knew,
we saw clear through, to another side of everything.

Measures demanding means of making them,
seeing things in perspective…
from any perch.

Land and look around, listen to the locals singing.
I could live here,
if I found water and recognized food, waiting,
watching other things eat,

thinking, tongue-wise former of signals, seeing
through my eyes, feels no flow, signaling
that looks good,

witness the little skink nibbling, fugaciously,

THAT is a word, as sudden as she knew, she saw,
that looks good
to eat, for food.

As suddenly as ever, ever dawned on her, of course,
root, branch, seed, harvest, birds, bees, boy oh boy,

what you never learned, all that time,
you and the
{Idea of all we see, and may call, as I call this,
this it is. My highest intuition, top of the reactionary
stack,
vertical order in a linear mind set with neuron-axon,
tactile response teams, responsible for being good,
doing some life-support-level good.

Not to steal and **** and destroy the functionally good
enough, but to steal back stolen idols used to divine.
Put some ****** good ideas to work again.
The ladder has not been needed.
Need being, nothing where some defined thing,
definitely could be put to good use,

we could do with a Babble-undoer. A clear-ifying agent.

If I do not this thing, this thing is never done, aborted
at first kiss, no taste, nothing sweeter than wine,
wine, I spat, at first taste, too,
nasty, not sweet, unless,
due to time and chance,
your first taste of wine comes right from the vine,
where the little foxes play at being little foxes,
as seen from a happy father/mother pair,

there in the vineyard, since sunrise, in the valley.


----------------

From the valley floor, we contain ourselves,
we content ourselves with shorter days
than flatlanders use, our shorter days,
come on slow, so slow, old men,
like me, we can walk to the top,
of this next little trough, and
see, out across the flat bottom,
where the ocean was in mastodon days.

--------------
If you will, some days this trail calls
for more stops to think, than when I ran
with my dogs,
I can not do that now, partly due to
too many people,
and no eating of dogs.

I, yes, if I try, I laugh now, with a fiftyish
riverside family man, laughing as he skinned
some shorthaired pointy muzzle kinda dog,
coulda been a rabbit,
or a pet chicken, or duck. Hand raised for 4-H.

there were some hints of hidden plots
but I'm unable to reveal
I found some separated spots
still unable to tell which link is real

and so I try to analyze
what rather should and must be framed
since all I see creates disguise
that's much too complex to be ever named

of course it has been clear to me
that I can never understand
trapped in the wrongest strategy
but this slight insight it could never end

living within recursive strains
and sensing that there is a sense
more valid than just causal chains
but only describable as weird chance

so all foretelling must stay vague
and loosely caught in blurring lines
just guessing back allows to make
out what still must resist to be combined

seems context can produce a part
that hides some future in degrees
of freedom interpreting art
seems the mystic whole is stored in a piece

but there's no way to find out how
to find what is the fitting view
since perspectives change truth right now
and every looking back is always new

breaking habits means crossing lines
to unveil the contexted mess
just writing what my brain combines
still so far beyond my most daring guess

but this is where I cannot get
by words bound to logical thoughts
I treat them in new ways instead
where all I is weakly felt metaphors

and all I see is kept in mind
and stretching out with every verse
but well, of course no one can find
what only contextually occurs

a strange result is feeding doubts
since all is trapped self-reference
that can be clearly talked about
asking how to comprehend any sense

outside the very performed act
but what got written down at last
is a shadowed trace that reflects
translating what cannot be tracked unmasked

with or kept by well defined terms
but ambiguous metaphors
leaving space for views to confirm
spotted patterns that could reflect my course

but each changed context brings the chance
to find new ways of reading how
the world was caught within found sense
constructed just against backgrounds of now

i love that word, puttering, my adjective
of early morning rambling, world examining,
in the early AM, treading barefooted
from room to room, a list prestablished,
+ tidy up the prior evening’s laziness,
unload with complete silence the
prior nights dishwasher, homework,
prep the couch back to pre~beat~up presentability,

make the first 16.5 .oz of Blue Mountain
Hawaiian coffee, in my art history
McIntosh mug(1),
prepare the first of the day’s bitesized
edibles,
a:k:a, Kashi crunchies, so the coffee all
falls down  to a well~recv’d internal welcoming

the timing is off, the clock has changed,
it is early but not really, I’m constantly
recalculating ‘real time’ until confused,
substituting the internal locked-in clocking that ultimate divination of right and wrong,
the betting app informs us of the
under/over hours really slept line
set by Las Vegas oddsmakers

but as usual, the digression omens come
fast and furious, up in the sky apartment
is an oasis of cloud quietude,
(where the latitude and longitude
inter-sec, where the cleansed sun softly)

ah quietude, an envelopment noun
favored over the pedestrian quiet,
my ears,
fulfilled by music via noiseless earbuds,
fills the soul, it is the milk in the
morning coffee brew of the
crossover silence, tween the skyed division

check on the woman, deep asleep,
(pronouns: she/her/mine)
her arm thrown across my empty pillow, as if holding my place in line,
like besties in second grade, a warning to other potent interlopers,
so
withdraw silent to finish the routine that
is so comforting, the polit~noise chatter has
not yet invaded, all of its associated
malice’s tumult, kept away at bay
with forethought,
and instead, thus, I, write,

in this quilt of solitude, not alone,
write of this companioned morn~born~rituals that
will be one day,
be renamed,
as a

mourning ritual,

when
when life ruefully states in its
arrogant ~ don’t ~ care, no ways,
now that,

When,
one of us, be
sleeping permanent, and the
silence be reformatted, recalculated,
the coffee will taste different, and
the footfalls no longer unsqueaking,
no need, cause the solitude is just
renamed as loneliness, and though
the tears emanate from same tear ducts,
the causal reasoning is reversed,
no longer
celebratory, and with no one to show it off,
to share,
no punch in the arm gasp
of loving recognition,

I perforce new habit,
will read this puttering,
now stuttering poem

someday as a new summary,
a substitutable morn chore,
absent
a chorus of a
singly
singular
beautiful quiet but only
memorized,
silenced applause

A glance to the right, and she walks through the door. Two seconds too long lingering on her face. Assessing the “threat”, finally looking away.

Country music blares, we’re seated at the bar. She couldn’t get a drink until I walked in. “Service with a smile” they say......**** that.

Driving down the road I’m stopped at a light. A cop pulls up next to us. She begins to shake.....

A joke taken too far, she’s forced to laugh. Convince herself it’s funny so it doesn’t hurt.
compare her skin to paint being chipped away time and time again until there’s nothing left.

Comparison. Yes. Compare her to the “friend” you have. You mean that one black guy you spoke to once. I mean you guys were polite so it counts right? Nice guy, never had a problem with him.......wait why would you?

I never understood until I met you. Now I’m ashamed. Ashamed of my pigment of who those people are, convincing myself day after day I’m not like the others. Asking for repentance for the sins I’ve been taught to commit in the past. A 10 year old racist child a model of her mother the epitome of casual racism. Adopting pop culture I’ll never appreciate or understand. Liking “hip-hop” but making remarks about the singers.

I met you and my blindness is gone. However my privilege remains. A broken tattered skin that I’m forced to remain in. Claiming a heritage that I’d **** to make disappear.

I wish  I could protect you. wrap my arms around you tell the whole world they’re wrong and never let go. I’d buy you a space suit, to protect you from the contaminated air, and the hate behind those meaningful stares. Cover you in a blanket of love and healthy normalcy.

If only love could break down walls and form revolutions. Because if it could, baby this would be a world full of real people and real solutions.

What have i become?
a throw of the dice
nonchalant mr.vice
casual & causal
but spare me the price
would you...

life is unpredictable
and I
a spectacle
through me
the suns ray
setting flame to my schedule

this cannot last for very long
depleted
no fuel to move on
insomnia's run its coarse
and its only getting worse

Who will i become?
the father from a son?
i know of what you seek
make bread from a crumb
...so to speak

paper mache however
is not concrete
but that's just me

being discreet

No investment.
No skin off my nose.
- went back to Fool's day
- and then back to all in, free

No loss in time's eternity,
ended in the awesome knowing.

All trials in the ready past, ordo,

Seclorum Sanctorum Ordo, aside

ordinarily free visitor alien status,
-not allowed, they say, my status
holding no sway,
as a free spirit, they
no say, in the way things work here,
-crosswind to all good fortune

now was set to be long
before me, or thee,
verily
very mankindish, we may make do
imaginable causal agencies,
amen-emo-pet insurance
points in prepositioned order,
as we meander after looking out
past the creation of the sun,

some say, and may know, but we,
the common sensors on the planet,
amused and amusing others as well,

we are finishing a projected imagination,
the rites of spring, proposed as worthy
of our Fantasia evolution from Fool's Day,
through several saints days and processions,

all about the passions,
all appointed anointed salves
slick as any Bucky ball solutions
to the smooth, slave mind fear, hell,

set the captives free, break every yoke,
find the shibboleths and laugh at those,

not the accents ya'll'll use to abuse,
the speaker who stumbles …
tongue tied
while quoting Cretan poets.

I am the music
the concert is you.
mine is the note
the symphony yours.
I am the traveler
the destination you.

I am the sweat
my work is you,
I am the lover
you,love incarnate.
I am life
the destiny final you.

I am the mind
thoughts being you
I am the soul
within it are you.
I am time, bound
you,an eternal infinity.

I am the saint
you,charity noble.
I am conscience
the true keeper you.
I am change
the ever constant you.

I am reality
truth universal you,
I am existence
the reason causal you,
I am the means
you,the meaning whole.

All potency for pain and pleasure binds,
Confined to freely ebb from causal shell;
Then, urged by current convalescing mind
My heart parts way with what decaying, fell.
What if the sapling's ardor fails to flower,
So choked from light by canopy of old?
From bitter yield, I've winnowed only sorrow;
Love's fruitless growth has left it bare and cold.
Quickening, each pattern passed holds lessen -
With way now cleared, I remain resolute:
Dreaming of trunk's branches' fruitful blossom,
I make the means for chance to sweetly root.
     Though Nature bounding, I still wonder why
     Life, bourne by grief, seems made to die.

Freedom is the urge
That breaks out inside of us that makes us want to run.
An unseen Parkour of hands and feet.
Covering the threshold of walls and windows.
An key to an apartment
Of untold potential.
Seen as a window,
A causal gaze.
Things once seen as 3-D now seen  2-D.
Coming to the realization of just who we really are.
The desire of choosing to see things as brand new
A stillness of sorts.
A new brand of simple.
Holding on to a rail debating on whether or not to jump or hold on for a moment longer.
I.
The infinite compliment of the heart.
Choosing instead to run escaping,
The unfortunate pleasure of being chained in schizophrenia.
Gorillaz beating an untamed drum.
A constant pound, hands and feet becoming the ultimate form of expression.
The scuffle of feet over the sound of concrete.
Lost somewhere in the city.
Gorillaz beating an untamed drum.
******* my thumbs are up.
Unpaused ****** expressions, Revealing perhaps way too much.
A cup of cold noodles quietly waiting wholeheartedly.
Next to the gorillaz loudly stating otherwise.
Them.
The painkiller to an over twisted wrist,
Procrastination is a *****

The children of liberty’s voice
has been but a mute ripple
on the drums in this march to war,
death
   and
       de
              ca
                      y.
The voice of that capricious lady’s child could provoke the evolution

of the entire ethos and consciousness of mankind.
****!
That baby can sing!
Probably can do all the above
because it never cared about
ruling the world.
It was just trying to walk.
Those impish,
little
monkeys
with hands over their senses,
to speak no
hear no
see no
evil,
were barred entry
to Club Oligarchy.
(They’d make a mess.)
No limb left
to bang
on the drum’s of
society’s rhythm.
So hush now child.
We’re fond of *******
It makes (each) one of us
feel in control.








You’ve never been in control.












In this causal verse
you’re meat in capitalism’s grinder
and we are voting on everything
(and we really mean everything ((but you don’t know it))
you live in.
We’re gonna sit real smooth
as the misers of oppurtunity and wealth,
until our outdated and stagnant values
die with us
and take with us,
                                  more likely
                                                    than you’d
                                                                   like to
                                                                                be
                                                                                      liev
                                                                                               e
                                                                                                c
i
               v
               i
  l
i
                 z
                  
    a
                                                                                                        tion.
If you stay here and close your eyes,
you can work for a minimum wage
that couldn't help much with rent let alone a dream
But if you try really hard at a game of Simon says with ole Sam
you can carry this crippling debt around for a few decades
and get yourself learn’d
and we’ll even give you some ink
scribbled on some dead tree
to wear like a badge
of your pedigree training.
It may even get you that first option.
So you can pay what is owed
to your crippling
defeat.
I mean debt.
Sorry, we’ve rolled up the ladder for the rising tide.
But “social security”
TOTALLY
has your back when you want to die,
like us.
(Really, it will be the same and we’re good for it… promise.)  
All of you
do not pass go….
Actually, stay in this square and try not to go to jail.
Oh and you owe us two hundred dollars this time round.
There are some circles to be shushed.
And Sammy means business,
really
that is what he’s all about.
When you go to ****** the free
make sure there is no way out.

Time is just moments
seasons are so short,
May, June, July - into the stretching straining warm yawn of fall.
Then Detroit's long low hum of a winter.
Finances crashing into Needs and wants like waves, like the ocean.
Oceans of time, the gentle rhythm of regular mundanity
soon turns into later and we, weary traveler turn into causal observer.
"I miss you" turns into "what happened?"
life flies by in snapshots I don't see.
What shape my life might take if you, added like an ingredient in a stew not changing the exact nature of the recipe but enhancing the flavor.
but time. like seasons just...passes

Can't I not be human
Can I not dress myself, bathe myself, feed myself
And more?
So what right do you have to treat me like a child
Who doesn't believe actions have consequence?
I'm sick of your judgement
When the only one that matters is my own
Its the 21st ******* century!

Mon aux deux tiers divine,
Toute laine et marjolaine
De douceur et délicatesse,
Courrais-tu, bufflesse, les steppes
Avec ton ombre d'argile
A la recherche du plant de jouvence
Semé aux Treize Cyclones
Qui hantent les îles-fleurs du bout du monde ?

A chaque cyclone aux ailes brisées
Qu'offrirais-tu, Gilgamesh, mon ombre immortelle
Dans le nigredo causal et a-causal où se fond l 'abîme ? ?

Au Cyclone-gel, la baguette et le cerceau ?
Au Cyclone-mauvais, le taureau céleste ?
Au Cyclone-tempête, la Forêt de Cèdres ?
Au Cyclone-rafales, le corps de la Joyeuse ?
Au Cyclone-tourbillons, les hommes-scorpions ?
Au Cyclone-du Nord, les cyprès ?
Au Cyclone-poussières, les gazelles ?
Au Cyclone-du Sud, les Enfers ?
Au Cyclone-de l'Est, le Déluge ?
Au Cyclone-de l 'Ouest, la nuit d'étoiles ?
Au Cyclone-tornade, le sourire des hyènes ?
Au Cyclone-mortifère, le feu éphémère ?
Au Cyclone-souffleur, le feu éternel ?

The situation is inherently transformable
Because reality flows
We can't really drown
We are carried along by the flow

The impermanence idea goes pretty deep
Anatman view is that
External things are ephemeral
The self is not something we can rely on

Western thinkers
Thinking there is a permanent self

Buddhism
Physical body
Feelings change
Perceptions or the label that you put on experiences
Reaction to the things around you
Consciousness fluctuates
Our attention can fluctuate dramatically

The question of permanence and changed
Was wrestled with by Greek philosophers

Personal identity
What is it that makes us us?
Some say it is memory
Some say it is physical continuity as well

What is it that is reborn?
The cycle of rebirth

What is the self?
There isn't a self
But something we can refer to
Something that she did yesterday
The person I am now
Is based on the person I was then
There is a causal chain

Battling back troubled tears
Robert took the mike in church
to confess his sins to all
for the lives that had fallen by his hand.

In a causal web as dense
as a tropical thicket,
men in suits and brass
had ordered him to his post
at an Apache helicopter door.

Robert fired and men became bodies.
Those whose fate he sealed
would have done him the same
had they fired sooner or straighter.

But had the wheel turned otherwise
would they, like Robert,
have darted up from their sleep
in the dead of night -
soaked in the sweat of terror and regret?

For every Robert's sake
in every land,
I prefer to hope they would.

*November, 2013

Self containing vessles, not a few,
were gathered to be filled from one
small cruse of golden oil, pure as time.

Invitations echo, "Come ye, buy from me,
without money, without cost." Freedom from

cultural constraints, traditional right privileges,
customary tribute due the mightiest military mind.
----------------------------

Whistling editor of all of us,
in these and other words,
insert myself among
those entering the container
nearest you, be the self most honed.

--------- art's sakes alive,
no jive cat act, you know, this takes all day.

Sinking hope weights our bait,
dropping down to Cod level,
deeper than
our cultural bouyancy, sinking

through time climbing down
an actual ladder that was, that is
rusted to uselessness now, you see,

you fell, I climbed. Missed concepts
can take your breath away.
Sudden wisdom is not cheap thrills.
Same gravity, same air, same words.

We may imagine we form another mind,
we, you and me, combined, a new mind,
we, in an awesome state of knowing access.

Holy days, sanctified by family traditions,
expanding in the age of printing machines,
exploding in the age
of mass media via
psuedo infinite compute.

Science used to fool the foolable, magicians
all agree to be discrete, the enter-dance
is keyed to the most discerning
exercise of image forming,
will you, won't you,
join the dance
thinking seeing is the act of acceptence,
not thinking taking the act in conception.

He does not steal from me, who lights
his smoke from mine.

I arrive late. It is my way. I do use vegetables.
Excuses and excauses, we have in abundance.
When killing the opposition was first response,
we passed through a hisseephit pfft phaze.

The first thing. The Principal Thing. Peace
upon the figurative brow of the frustrated one thing.

The terror of ever being one thing and no thing more;
God's own dread, we may imagine, feels like ours,
boredom becomes insanity and insanity is mortal hell.

Wisdom, offered in doses from ancient runes,
discerned from evil uses of knowledge, actual useable
Wisdom is first sensed peaceable, then gentle, not wild
skittish, gotta be tamed and mastered to be used, no,no, no

First peaceable, no push toward your opposite bias,
no feeling of imbalence down in you guts,
no angry creator jealous of the tempting knowledge.
Forest copious abundance, with know how.
Use of good,
and useless destruction of ancient good sense.
Who lies about you.
Personally, what living hate do you appropriate?

The idea that Christ, that word, holds a preconceived
story hook to a promise, an other word, progressively
pulling the thread through gnosis knots too tight to comb,
so we twist dreads into fashionable cool.

Truth in numbers is easier than truth
in otherwords aligned,

listening to everything, once, in a while.

Understand, when we conserve a westate, you and me,
we are the medium we exist to conceptualize in, within.

When the best combined minds in Mathematics
do agree, rarely, but when that instance of truth,
pops
backed by the Universe in which we live,
and, truly astoundingly, do breathe and have being,
ex nihilo as far as we may know right,
now
we as a whole, the species adapted to the times
we were born to mature through, to this end.



OK, in that curious bubble…
dear reader, this novel event is recorded,
to flashback in the future you need directed

steps, ah, nexts, in time, is one way,
memory is all over the place, but next
is always toward the not known yet.
---------------
Found a four meter San Pedro,
on Craig's list, free, some may say

it is a sign, some message to a shaman
of the original dreamtime rerouted to now.

Some how we affect world peace, taking parts
less likely to effect fame and fortune, fool's roles
local poet
and studio talent anonymity,
aficionados only, olé.

A story genisisatates, blooming possibilities unimagined,
yet, apparently blooming in my neuronic memory,

Barrio Logan, boom, there it is, the real deal

achuma wachuma, calling my curiosity, come see.

You have heard the adage, "what you see Is what you get."

What you believe you get, you get, once you see you got it.

This life, our combined realities, as bubbles in the human foam,
rising on the surface of Earth's dry places… the we we form

can be led to lieve being true, stranger things than oath chains
that turn to torqs and eventually to full Windsor knotted ties.

The collar of the loyal oppostion, turns fashionable,
included in the mindset finding fashion cycles
common since the distinction was made.

Many long times and wars and running aways ago,
we learn to be us, the holders of these truths from them
who begot us in this land.

-----------
Nah, Eve, she was not the culprit, truth be told.

Have a little talk with your Jesus, there in your core,
if you have formed a concept you hold true, Christmas
Peace on Earth, good will toward mankind, good news,
causal inferential essential entity, in a word, a little leaven.

An old fellow has written about death and receives in so-called welcome;
A magnum opus that details all the way from the beginning.
Tales of misery and woe with strewn optimism when he came to,
the man’s mortality caused fear-come-lethargy and it was so sudden.
Now light years apart from loved ones, as his demise untimely.
His life lay concluded while the memoir has no "End."

What about the quiet girl who thought her suffering would never end?
All she needed was to conjure a bit of courage; give herself gentle welcome.
Were there other factors that made her story untimely?
She recited a lackluster mind and limitation from the beginning.
All the time, trepidation for her fears of getting hurt, when all of a sudden,
Demure and diffident, made life unlived; she asks now: Where to?

How about the green soldier; where has he gone to?
Weathered, tenacious, and kind yet in the end,
His resolve broken, his judgments were sudden.
Supporting poor kin, a toxic home for an unpleasant welcome,
added salt to the wounded soldier, something was beginning.
He fled from them, even on the cusp of new discovery, M.I.A untimely.

Not unlike the jaded woman, whose escape was untimely.
Caught up in business where she need not to.
Had she known, without brash and haste, from the beginning,
she could’ve continued her story, but bankrupt on an abrupt end.
Drowned in debts, from markets of all black welcome,
If she just held on a little longer, a small window would prove sudden.

The musical boy’s name was not known, gone from the world so sudden.
Born of a syncopated heart; daunting in fear; so untimely.
The doctor’s unsure of cure; any and all answers welcome.
Wonders, he could keep, in tempo, rhythm hither to;
yet, weak-willed, having no bass to keep from his end.
If passion truly fervent, he would be alive, a last minute beginning.

Don’t ask the sharp young lady if she had a beginning.
She was well on her career when came the tragedy so sudden.
Loss of ability to speak, and was at her wit’s end.
Please don’t be sad, it would have seemed too untimely,
there are other ways to express if she proved creative and came to
realize the ***** of writing but ultimately death was at her welcome.

There are beginnings that have causal scars of the untimely,
making for sudden despair and untold tales never hearkened back to,
do not fear for the end, embrace what’s before , now and on forth. To them I can say, “You're welcome.”

On any given day,
so far,
I have been sui causal,
and distracted by a real
fat cat named Wreckit,
he's a ****** subspecies' archetype,
on the branch of eating things,
unique, we insist, we delight in knowing,
we eat cats next to last.

This  cat has the best life of any mammal ever.
My grandchildren worship him, and he's afraid
to come into my room, but he defiantly plays
in the hall and looks to see if I notice, and I blink.

I think a thank you for the lightening mood.

There are far more painful things than loneliness,
Like being surrounded by the deep,
Gnawing feeling that nobody quite understands.
It's hard to escape, this  ambiguous notion of longing
For something that isn't quite there.
It always shows up, rubbing up against the edge of causal conversations, late night musing and crowded coffee shops,
Bearing it's ragged head in the reflection of silver spoons and tap water.
It's easy to lose yourself in it all,
To forget the subtle way you shuffle your feet,
And even the final vowel of your name.
These things seem so miniscule in comparison
To the wide empty feeling you get
When surrounded by a crowd of all the wrong people.

she was skilled.
a super heroine.

WWW long before there was the internet competitor,
defender of the Weaker ***,
from when that was still an
acceptable insult,
that she crushed, when found the pronouncers,
and the foundering it was of causal, her rescued army,
oblivious to the injury she risked and
completely aware,
injury she was hoping to cause.

woman. wonder, women.
and my mother,
my shelter unquestionably,
between her legs, me standing,
little boy bravery infusing,
she was his blood, his tea, his exemplar,
his teacher

drank so deep that when he was at last man-dated,
her honoring was in the reciprocal,
when he was anointed
Wonder Man.

I don’t think you understand,
because I don’t, this wasn’t what I planned.
So I’m wondering how you can understand, when I don’t.
I won’t lose myself loving you, I won’t.
You’ve got me feeling too many different things,
got me contemplating cutting our tethered strings.
Falling in love has me tripping
over my own two feet? Maybe. All I know is I’m slipping
face first into this tangled mess
and now guilt eats at me as I slip from your arms half dressed
in the mornings when all I want is to escape,
wishing I was Wonder Woman with that red cape.
I slip away, but it hurts-
but I’ve seen it; my family, we’re cursed.
Concerning love, we’ve had no luck
I can’t lose you, so I’m labeling us a causal ****.
I hear you yelling now that you know my reasons,
promising our love could survive even the coldest season.
But how can he be so sure?
Doubts plague me as I slip toward his front door,
because love didn’t come with a brochure.
I hear you figuring aloud that I don’t love you enough.
You come to the conclusion,
“if this is how you feel, then I’ll set you free”
I got in my car, driving around till the clouds were dark and the clock said three.
Your words had been like knives,
but then I started thinking about my dad’s four wives.
My brain’s all jumbled,
it’s like there was one second left, I was on the one yard line, and I fumbled.
Is the risk worth it?
Could my heart even take the hit?
When I got home, in the dark I saw you standing
my heart was demanding
that I make my way over to you
but my brain said these feelings needed to be subdued.
I heard you say “I love you too much to set you free”
It was then when I looked in your eyes, love was all I could truly see.
My scalp tingled in realization,
as I floated toward you with some type of natural gravitation.
My heart had already taken the risk, without permission
and that’s when I mumbled my belated admission;
“I love you too and I’ll take my chances,”
My brain finally conceded to your romantic advances.
But really, truth was, I’d been under an illusion
because our love had always been a foregone conclusion.

It is funny to see banners wishing Happiness displayed with cinematic glamour,
the pictures and hordings of Banner heroes.

The one at Tannery Road junction was peculiar to mention.
Here it was common
The captions "Happy" used to summon names of sundry festivals-Local  and national, even internstional.
What's uncommon was the bold prints
of a hero's name ARUMALAI outshining
The caption and his larger than life picture establishing the photographer's digital brushing skills.
A passer by wondered who'd be this Arumalai,
Is he so great as to be advertised in polivynil?
His glorious deeds may be what they want you to heed
Still never ever seen or heard of his manners
Anywhere than in these motley banners
Just as a function
at the Tannery road junction

Each one passed by this colossal glance attracted provoking  protracted ruminance  what do this expensive banners really mean?

In another occasion
the  glaring glorifying picture
of ARUMALAI followed the tag
Corporator,
Below the man posing a DICTATOR.
That was a period to a period of mystery!

Banners changed with seasons
with greetings on religious occasions
Festivals of importance
Birthdays of men even
with crowded profiles of hailers
Whose unrully manners
Too clogging up the banners
Like a wanted list of jailors.

One day a strange banner
hooked by the Tannery cross over
Spooked and shocked every passer-by
There the usual banner cut out
the larger than life image blings-out
Arumalai the BBMB corporator
Posing as dictator!

There was no wish of any kind.
It was a notice startling any mind
The sad demise of ARUMALAI
The BBMB corporator
Still possed as dectator
By his living promoters.

"He was sick and the local dispensary advised a minor operation.
He was administered
the necessary treatment.
Was referred to a super-speciality
centre and was declared dead.
His sad demise was advertised, he was forty.
His chummies complained of medical negligence", was the only news summary
in major news papers...
What was the reason for the minor surgery
What're the preparations
for the corporator's  operation
All are mystery for a  causal itinerary
passer by crossing over the Tannery Road junction,  wondering at the strange envountering with banners
that come and go
Keeping no annals
Floating on the mind for a while
Stopping at the red's knell,
Moving with the green signal
The rise and fall of heroes
As binary one and zero
The banners tell a story tertiary
Of the rise and fall of a luninary
Within a plane ofmomentary
Variation of red and green
On the Tannery road's screen.

It all comes together by the thirty firsts, I think,

There was a point,
this is honing that, honest, it connects,
the nature of things is

different
for different things,

the child's empathy with stuffed toys,
try that with a real lizard brain,
when you feel real centered
knowing what manner of men we are,
that it is given unto us to be, and all.
Or be
at all?
Are we cogs, or co-gnostic self willed double minded
beings in a mobmind

doing our idiotic best to make peace

in the confusion, I aided in the development of.
by my lonesome,
I've a military mind,
and I've given that to the causal forces facing war,
in an epic battle, reason to reason

the mystery of iniquity is already at work, and the logos
are
all on my side, all the logos in the feed, are
sending ads to me, paying me,
wee tiny
bits
of attention, not to mention, the viral idea… gone
t'seed as a self, ya gotta love, simplicity,

but not too much.