I checked into the lobby of her one room apartment,
darkened corridor filled with paintings of Jesus.
The fountain throbbed in the hall of this hotel,
shuttered windows,
subtle innuendos,
three knocks.

The night was hot and black,
clothes stuck to our shirts.
The story is about summer and you,
and her dark little island of a room,
and all of her crooked roads,
that had their footprints in my odes.

She was born under the star of Venus, three stars above me.
Her light blue eyes, filled with humbleness, softly saddened.
Her painter's eyes, mercury mouth at the biblical times.
Hair that was colored like wine dark sea fell down on her breast,
on lips that looked like bare roses,
blushing with blood, eating themselves with desire.

I was a wounded soldier, long afloat on a ship less sea.
Deserted and displaced from the war.
A war between the black and white,
A war between the man and the woman.
Utopian infant, Eutopian mother.
Born into this life, thrown into this world.

We entered the darkened room, and purposely didn’t turn on the lights.
She through her house keys and bag on her bed, lit a cigarette.
Offered me one, however he took some of my own.
Looking into her eyes through the smoke, where the moonlight floats.
Lit lamp that was hanging from a distant boat.
Now I saw, there was a painting by Arnold Bocklin hanging on the wall.

spoken word:
A small rowing boat is just arriving at a water gate and seawall on shore.
An oarsman maneuvers the boat from the stern. In the boat, facing the gate, is a standing figure clad entirely in white, a lone loon dives upon the water. Just behind him, there is a festooned object commonly interpreted as a coffin. The tiny islet is dominated by a dense grove of tall, dark cypress and willow trees. The Mephistopheles is just beneath him. As siren grabs him from the of the edge of the boat, underwater.

And she wraps up my tired face in her hair
And she hands me the apple core,
Two birds in a cage, drinking lovers wine and eating bread.

I'll stop in the middle and skip things between me and her. (It comes to us all, soft as a pillow)

The oarsmen has gone
And the loons have flown for cover.
And me I am on trail, in the funeral of my lover.

courage guides on knowledge not enough
known, not enough known,
but known enough,
to know

a guess is not a lie, unless you know,
empirically,
by way of out-perience,
trying out and failing in a miserable state
to wait as a wisher a while more,
"existing in a state of want, suffering, wretchedness, etc."

Bet me, cries my friend the gambler,
you may win, she cries,
you never know. Dare wait,
wait to be old
to know

the past will be found to have been right,
for what it was in history,
a discrimination, between Eutopian existence known
scientifical-ish as
knowable knowns unfalsifiable as
experience paid proper attention
to sense the edge
next time so we may
know failing to know the unknown
end of the whole matter,
thus we
make a science, form a knowing, leave a known,
a core known, fitted into
the discriminated class of knowns to
you, to take away into your place where
"two rocks nearly join", to hoard with all
previous knowns awaiting use in some reader some day.

Liberty taken,
"It's a smug poem, y'see."
I see it posted here.
Positioned to be seen if sought long enough,
all over hoary on the top,
the poet was old when I met him,
I have lines left linked to a younger him,
but the lines tie me to the old man
who spoke of critters and rocks
witnessed by a knower and sayer of enough.

I find good imaginable.
I find no reason good could ever form a war.
No reason has come to mind in some time,
I have forgotten when I knew
no reason ever could. War was never a good idea,
but
an idea and any may be can be fitted to nature
imagined by knowing witnesses imagining,

if prey thought as men think, I think,
this folly…
for it is me, thinking
as prey thinks,
and I know I am hunter, taker of life to maintain
my right unalienable.
I am of the class risen from the masses, I read.
I see things have been in part
known
all along. Joy of the fullest sort any morning contains,
is easier to find when sought early in a given day.
-- round it out, he said he learned, as a purveyor of news.
Tap, tap tap, I recall learning
Rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
you know.
Pounded round the edge of the head,
rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
and finisher work in a furniture mill,
where the upholstery was done with mastery staff,
journey men, wombed or un,
put art into their effortless
ability to peen a pretty as pi brass tack with
proper formed blemishes,
tucking folds in fabric formed formed formed…
of thread crossing thread in a pattern pre arranged
-listen, amused, feeling the walls of the maze
were never made of more than thought-knowns,
thoughts known as thought once by another
pouring lines in reasonable
networks fit to strain gnats from gnostic guessings now
twisted strands combed from silk
eggs
con structed
as instructed long long long time gone right,
threads through now from how how how and why
when
nothing was known, as was I, ignorant of now, so then
they all have been, as children of men,
touring the caverns where wisdom hides
lies so evil only adults are allowed to even imagine them,

so, rest a while, child. Mortality is a moment that proves
relativitiy is an iffy situation to imagine right
the first time.

"a smug poem"

Inspired by the reality of TV
being as eternal as electricity.
I listen
to Robert Frost,
knowing my voice dares not imagine
knowing how he remembered
old poems, by then, 1952,
flowing from under his hoary mane,

lines he lingered on 20 minutes,
40 years earlier or more,
I don't know, how long it had been, but it was
old poetry by then, 1952

2020 -day 84

Tuesday, March 24, 2020
8:55 AM

Seeing wrong,
seeing all the light available,
swallowed
in the shadows.

The unknowable turns believable.
Seeing monsters made up of

fears, non knowns, and warnings of what if;

how does the seer ever see
the absense of

all that never was

appears as real
is now
visible in the light of day after tomorrow.

Expect, see, out there, ex-spectate, wait

what if this all passes

----

Meeting death in the barren market place,

this old man insisted on standing, to see past

pasts claiming causal friction grows slicker

sticky corruption shorting
utilities to
ground us.

{about five hundred million functional on-offs
fit on the silicon in a single grain,

a finite grain, in the finite sand, FYI}

pearl essence,
a layer of lacquer on a rough cut stone, a single
granular bit of silicon,
not sand, not silicone leaked from cracks and cleavages.

Real natural sand, minus the dioxide cubist shapers that
seem to hold silicon in three-d even
inside an oyster gut

flat silicon surface
formed via imagi-tec-hative prognostication of holo
grammatical

bubbles shaping spheres of pearl essence
in confluence forming skin
where once were
flat singlenessities,
little ships of life,
leaven,
from the forest floor, ripples of life,
only rational circles and every thing was as simple
as pi and Bohrian atoms.
from 1905 to now,

orbiting electrons is how most folk explain
chemical electricity,
and some try to say gravity is the force at work.

Wisdom first, as a force, knowing, sci itself comes first,

by any name you claim you know but can't say,

for fear of the power in such names, no,
for fear
of the power that makes such words, magic words,

words only magi-techs can utilize
safely in low light conditions,

layers of little lies, such as the evidence chain
back to the idea of taking, and using, perhaps,

God - big g, all emanations and flavors 's name in vain.

Jot that down. Yod heh heh heh

here, have a sound track for the battle being set in array...

Don't Fear the Reaper

40,000 every day, la la, la la la

-- blue oyster cult mythic edge of sixties band

rock rollin' music for happy sisyphus fans,

who find links to Camus in Covid 19 news, oh no

knowing growing must go on,
we eak out a spurt of

pearl essence, this could be slippery,

keep your balance, walk don't run, listen we

survived, there is no guilt in that.

Nor must we do more than mortally possible, to believe
this life is temporary, at best.

consist, insist, resistance is futile, tiny grain

irritant emanating signals



so smooth, so full of potential beauty
in this light

The Government keeps secrets. True,
some secrets are needed,
for the order to pre
vent chaos of random chance which
we all know is reasonable.

We have wars to protect those rights to privacy.

We've a right to hide our lies,

I vote no.

and as one in eight billion, on one plain
I pack a canon

with alchemical clues to choke a horse

Suppose, this is the way truth works, it finds
knowledge boxes leaking facts you are
Not allowed to know
you know,

you may
but
if you wish to know more

{WA watching unbelieve
abilite able say go or amen, or so beit is okeh, any
action provoker -- ask ask ax that's the word we was lookin' for}

we don't care
we

are the keys to all the secrets locked in words

we are free for the learning,
we mean any thing only if meaning was intended,

some idea thingy do form ative umph

sorts us from the stream, in a pan, swirl. slow sift
spread see the gleam

ef
fect af
ter affect of effectual fervent prayers, if

you can believe that.

My sci phi fantasy slips on some unknown

substance of things unseeemly bang

my bubble pops and here I am again

earthbound and sounds of
jet planes leave lines

of reasoning to wonder if nothing is separate
from anything at all.

All being posed as the ever, in

eutopian success stories passed via trans
dimensional possessors

of certain skill in tongues and interpretation,

not to brag,
but muses play a major role in arranging for

tri-lingual translations, listen

some very strange people must be kept alive.

Look around you. Why the fervor to preserve

old boomers who ignore cancer warnings?

I can't say.
I don't know. Ye, Gads, I'm one of those...

raging,
at the breaking edge, the raging edge of

ever after this. A world alive in beauty...

squirrels are cute, I have some in my yard, right now,

there is a reddish one, with beige eye-liner round
white-less eyes,

nibbling green shoots on foxtails I am dreading, while
wondering if they ripen to hold fermentible grain,

just in case the worst you can imagine happens,
and I need to get real drunk.

Look around me.
Nothing missing, nothing broken, no need
appears when I speak of the devil
and focus on the worst that
could happen,

no need revives

save remembering to breathe and step outside
when the rain stops.

Spaceship earth is listening,
these are the legendary interesting times.

Seals have been broken, and the breaking seen on tv.

We matured after allathat. There was no boom,

life haps in bubbles, at the bottom
of the final metaphor.

Knowing used, expands bubbles, and as we
encorporate

all we know, in video and so on, we signal

all we have ever known, we got the message,

this is our answer.

Doorkeeper,
where can I find an attention spanner?

Wrenching the nose, brings forth blood,
so it don't freeze, yawn and rub eustacy
from your wide open heavily hooded eyes

Eutopian Earthian Mind Schemes,
not dreams, moral equivalency resets/upgrade

Free any ostiarius,
and find doors open
in the realm of curiosity,

the bane of short attention,
at tenere, eh, stretch

the fabric of reality just so far, the bubble
we be sayin' wagwan like a password, pops

and what is going on, lets any enter, imagining

this exclusive, exceptionalist aweformed bubble…

when a reader re ads attention tension,
pop, the idea that was the weasle,
offers a way to say this and get free. An ostiarius,
freed from slavery when we read the idle teacher

of decolonizing clogged cognitive colons…

and the sweet persuaders remind us whose time\

Yours, we took this much attention,
but you can still use it, we sorta cloned you.