Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
    I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
    Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
    In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

    Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

    Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,

It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seeing' that he's chasing

    Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc.

Afraid to write- some real feelings might surface.
Even if you accept it, I might not be able to write back.
With my obscene depression and an emptiness of guilt,
Reassuring you to never putting trust in my hands,
Don’t get me wrong, I want you more than anything.
Thinkin bout you every evenin’.
You slowly forget me with memories every now and then.

I’m slowly forgetting how to write,
Just like every Buddhist nightmare
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
Once an unknown rock is placed,
All my memories are re faced.
Satans eyes are on me
He’s realizing gods guard is no longer with me,
It’s not worth the lies,
It’s not worth the guilt,
Above the clouds yet my mind is so clear.
With nonsense in my plane and no one to steer.
Cabin shaking is just my memories shivering,
Nightmares to my mother,
I never wanted to see her quivering.
Times are hard but the life is tough.
Fighting through weeds with my two inch sword,
Never wanted to smoke yet I’ve never craved it more.
Someone help me cause I’m never making it through.
A doctor can understand but I need a therapist to get me.
Even though I’d never tell her anything because who is she?
She got secrets, she never speaks.
Although mine are straight from the fires and hers from the smoke.
Realizing you’re looking down on me like white folks.
Never wanted this for my family but its a curse disguised as a blessing,
Something they’ll never understand.
Fighting my demons even though I know they’ll never leave me.
You’ll never see me talk about how I feel without a rhyme at the end,
I’d just be speaking gibberish without a message to send.
I know I’m crazy but ill never admit it,
Never pay for classes,
I don’t want your visits.
Learning to cope with my disabilities
So I’m dealing with you.
Learning to never underestimate your enemies
So I’m measuring you.
I’m slowly forgetting how to write,
Just like every Buddhist nightmare
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
My demons play well with yours so I guess that’s a bonus.
Relying on myself, no trust is given,
Fighting your myths, truth be tellin’.
I’ll never understand your intention, pray for me in heaven.
I find it hard to summon the world,
With the sickness on my mind and the lifted virtues in my soul.
Thinking my flows quicker than ocean rapids gives you a higher IQ.
And if you’re just saying that to make me smile then I thank you.
Many people in this world underestimate the righteousness of us.
Thinking you’re born evil is dissing the beauty of a child,
Rather than acknowledging and accepting his smile.
The warmth that fills the heart when she says daddy as you walk though the door,
Or the tears that overflow your eyes when he never comes back from the store.
I understand these problems because my dreams consist of your life.
So before you call me a liar,
Understand my trials,
My deep realization,
I’m the only one unlike a choir.
Listen to your heart and to this rap.
They both beat for you.
One keeps you alive and the other makes it worth it.
The beat of a drum and the snare of a set tell you you’re not worthless.
Understand your weaknesses and they will become deep,
Redefine your intelligence and it will become the thing that keeps
You out of harm and boosts your wisdom to become a great man.
Wars greater than the world occur inside your mind when they slowly unfold.
Never really  understanding anything except why you’re sad,
Facing your consequences earns back your title of being a man.
I’m slowly forgetting how to write.
Just like every Buddhist nightmare,
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
Listen to these flows, you got it

Instant mischief
They call me the beat chief
Making you all chant
Even well you got no breath you pant
Now what's next
Gonna make you feel my inner context
It's what's inside
That makes my heart burst with pride
It's how I've learned to flow
Turned me from intense to mellow
And now that I've gained control
I'm up here on patrol
The dance floors filling with bass
I promise you you'll feel it in your face!
Your feet going so crazy
There's no way you'll feel lazy
This is the roll call
All is present I've got them all
Never leavenin
Cause I'm a fiendin
For the evenin
The bass is my meanin
Let go of it all out of me to you
You may think I'm a fool
But I just love
To make you feel like your floating above
A beautiful cloud
Vibrating aloud

If peace were a state we all agree to imagine, a state
we
envision as uni-
versal in any song, peace, calm, flowing deep, state
of being
in any man, wombed or un,
in any family, any tribe, any deme of agreements unbreakable,
any hermit cell

any bubble of believing generating proper people to fit
tradition and mystery myths without

re-tying truth to may, the verb. That's vainity.  
Religion.
(re-ligamentation,
like muscle to bone wit sinyew,
same stuff strangs a bow, for a fiddle ora arrow,
y'know)
that's somethin' else.
Religion could mean read the instructions, too.
All together
----
stopping to live. slowing, not stopping. pre-stop.

whisper,
say, earth,
hey, earth,
can you hear you now?

---
the dictator dictated the dictionary,
he/she/we/me

learned to speak as spoken to, in the boss tongue.
Ma or pa,
or whosover was fustus wit d'mostus
taught the good ol' boys.

But wisdom saw a way. We've been woven in a story.
We are in the code. Ethos, Pathos, Logos.
Those old Greeks examined them some life, I'd say.

Language rules the iron fist's grip,
meaning empowers
laxation, re
loose
gut brain pain fraught fear of the iron fist crimping
the flow of solidity
punch in the gut

Knock thashitoff! Now, flush

in ifity, boo, be bop, I'm an ice cream cone,

like those alien ones, mebbe,
moving stones the weight of 737s,

my cones of power defy your hour of suffering patient
per fection of...

what, wait, allusion to "Let patience have her perfect work"
what is her perfect work?
Quote that San Francisco band. Oh. Did that. Love.

you ask. The reality I see, you say, no, I say, me.

I am patience, the feminine form, 's perfect work.
Patients must put up with me,
you see

----
fear is terror's weapon, am i right?

And it is written, the fear of the LORD (KJV)
yhwh, in the unsayable way, God's name, only name, eh

is why that started?
Old Job let out a yelp, hey, earth is great, but you have no idea
how this feels.
You know lots of stuff I don't know, but mortality is not one of em,
as far as I can tell.
How 'bout a referee betixt us?

Hey, sus, pect me a spectacle

of the great contro
verse un ifiable, unif, once possible now, nullift.

got it.
Every other direction known. Take a fearless, peaceful-
feeling
path past all that.
Peace, be unto  you, earth. For my part.
The examined life is worth the living. You are in this one with me,
a very important part, an object, an aim to see what

could be there, a like mind, washed ashore.
----

A.P.I. Art Pax Intel

act as if they are listening with interest, paying
actual
attention, add pieces
of life stuff

I am 71, my window is my horizon, or
better said,
my horizon is my window. I have mini-horizons,
i think
like this... chromebook attached at finger tips,
I can and may be making some counter wave that clears
the crypto frost from my window to your
realm.

Who took your may? Do you recall the day?

It was a teacher who took my may,
but I won my can, That's a plotted point, I
ponder on my porch
partaking in curds of ways to do so saline a work

Fantasy education system U of old dudes like me,
tired old dudes who have no desire to argue,

but, really, don't tread on me.

the old greeks were at rest, the slaves were under control
but we old American men in twenty nineteen
we have A.I. and pensions enough,
my examination can go far deeper than Aristotle's.

Part taker, trope positions, anonymous wisemen's roles in
this generational take on
we, the people, by realization, not revelation
of the
traditional worth of wisdom found under hoary
or shiny-fringed heads and grey beards and
amplified through ear hair
like antennae.

Admiring and worth. Hmmm.
Mira, look upon the ozimandian heir and
wonder, why am I a part of this, an eight billionth of this

interesting time of changed time,
time duration,
it is known relative now,
a precocious child of twelve can explain the paradox.
But time travel, imagine...
The ships,
The captains venturing where... slaves and would-be thieves
would, or could be made to, row or man the ropes,
whether any sweating soul endured to the end,
or not,
Who cares-- we recall only the history of kings.

Aha, there were teachers paid to teach
Admire-alty of the strong who keep us free within our walls.
That was the meme, be like
obediant to
the man on the horse.

Extreme Narcissist rises as the needed leader, least meek
of men morphs materially into the Nuclear God?
the opposite of peacemaker becomes hero?

Endure. In your patience, you possess...

Here's the deal. Life ain't fair. No war ever worked to settle
the mixup over the actual reason
for con fusion. Fusion sticks stuff together that has a pro

pensity to repel.
En-trope, we wrestle that, we fight it with
weapons un-carnal on any fractal level where matter matters.

Settle down, we say, by being at rest, fretless.
Let my peace, you say, come in me,

now, in your bubble of peace,
where no damnation can exist, begin
to grow, feed on knowledge proven no lie.
Start with one, unproven
reason you have for laying down or taking lifetime from anyone,
or for anyone.

Plus and minus, up and down. Mere words.
Confusion is mashing things together to make stuff

like earth. You look close, **** augmented us,
we inherited the only biosphere in the known universe,

and some ******* hell's angel wannabe...

Nope. Fractally can't happen, time being duration, not
an arrow on a gravity bound arc.
From "it is finished' going viral,
Nailed it,
no contest.
Yep, peace makers won. Deck was stacked.
The idea of the act of
Nuclear war launched the tyranny of phobias,
including an old idol word bound fear.
Logophobia
fear of God idea is the beginning of wisdom. think this, what if

wisdom began in you when you imagined the evil
men have realized from their shared imagings,
Logos imagined it first. What if that?

for lack of vision,
my people perish. AH, fractal up
about a thousand Mandelbrot tics, okeh.

Did we come away with treasure, or are we lost in the war game?

---
how many is enough to make the effort,

ef fective effort to learn.... check. didit, still am. one's enough.

ef fective effort to use the learning right ... check, workin' on it.

Whee gotta cut some traditional slack to the clowns
who keep the poor man happy for the hell of it,

y'know, life's hard at the bottom.

but it ain't
no fun.
And happy minds bounce. No lie. Bi-polar on demand, kinda.

K'mon down. The price is right. Got moonshine in the evenin',
after-the-cool-of-the-day, unquiet late spring night,
Stars aplenty,

laid back, leanin' on the tree of all I can ever know or
ever know
already. Ever knowing, you know. Feels good. Starry night,

in focus, with our shared augmented eyes beyond

the base-bubble of life, where I fit.

---- bored old man? is that pathetic, or what?---
Is this a good that you can do, asked, but I allowed no quest to form.

The point of any story in my mandlebrot set of stories never imagined,
is why I make the daily efforts, find the point, mark it a peaceful
place at the end of a hard row to ***.

Making the point in ever, where you notice your role,
this is the peacmaker's privilege, for the prize of playing your role,
the rest that remains, is mine to use right, examing life
amidst confusion you may have stirred up on your own way here.

the pope asked me what i really belived in, behind the lies and masks and the effect of saten.
you know what i told him?
wanna know what i said on that dry summer evenin?
i said that my holy book is read by the perfact way your hair looks messy when you just get out of bed,
when you call me late at night because our songs stuck inside your head.
i worship the way you always say that i know just what you think,
ill pray to the way your voice goes low as hell when you talk about true love.
the way your eyes make stars appear in all that dreary darkness of...all the rhods we take and lines we cross just to hold echother near. and at the end of this congregation i promise ill see you soon my dear.
you give new colors to every flower. evey lemon, every tree. and the colors sparkle only when i hold you close to me,
on the red platos of navajo, honey bees makeing a song so much better than the radio, your voice the lead singer and my spirit feels the flow.
so yeah i know its a little bit melo-dramadic, a bit manic, co dependent on the way you look at me, whatever you see thats just what i wanna be. babe.
and so my soul is saved with every touch from you.
preach in the pew about all the times we had at midnight solitary dances running from our taxes living life and death theres nothin left
but all that holy love we share.

so i told the prest the, minister the bishop and the father and the son and evry single holy ghost who was there, that im in love with this girl and i dont give a ****, what you think force me to drink that holy water to set me on that straigh and narrow bath, and i would laugh at all the **** that they belive will work on somone such as me.
and THATS how i got excommunicated
thankyou

1
I married when I was young, yeah,
a woman just as hale and hearty as me
and course I still had
to hang out with friends
and weekends I’d be off with ‘em
drinking and spending all the week’s pay
from Friday evenin’ till Sunday night

But my wifey ne’er understood that
and one Sunday night she’a said to me
“Why do you do this, mon? How’d you feel
if you don’t get to see me for so many days?”

“Fine by me, sweetie,” I said
as fast and as witty, even in drink


2
and that night I didn’t see her
and come Monday I didn’t see her
and come Tuesday I didn’t see her
and so on Wednesday and came Thursday,
the swelling went down a little
and I saw my wifey again
hale and hearty
out of the corner of my right eye

sometimes I have trouble getting out of bed
I have to remind myself that’s it easier DONE than said
and every thought that manifests negativity
pulls me down the ocean -heavy weights made of lead

On the best days, I wake up in a dance
popping up in a quick shimmy- boogie- smile at hand
no second glance, or worry of the stress of the Mundane Monday
I speak romance to the mirror at every passing chance

The weather may first try to gain my trust
bird songs, licking light, no signs of gust
than it erupts, black doom lurks in front of careless moon
to the south it hid behind the mountains musk

no worries, it’s a good day to say I’m feeling happy
****** snappy moody or grumpy is not available in my vocabulary
i’m still on the groove, slipping off clothes that reflect my CAN DO attitude
slip into the shower, shifting hips to the soul tunes groove

sparkled and wet, otter of the lake, dam it feels great
Circumvent the loops, bypass the dead thoughts, like a dog i shake
bitter bumps of sand traps- sad masks- quiver at my deliver
towel away empty dreams- ugly memes that act to turn me bitter

brush away the plaque attacks in nightmare fashion
practicing faces, singing freestyle lyrics into the brush i just mentioned
ecstatic on cold marble floors- tapping toes -no closed bathroom door
easy on the pitch but ******* the message with strength rattling ROARSSSS!

I want the neighbors to hear my dynamic e-lec-tricity
hoping the good vibes vibrate past time; spread e-ccen-tricity
unique to the core, spit out dead days from sleepy heads
never going back to bed, life is outside the sheets so i greet ser-en-dipity

no job, no re-spon-si-bility EXCEPT the passions i create
truth, wonder at my superhuman shadow- outline of a cape
raise pumped fists-strangle lips quick- quit bitchni- leave complaints nonequipped
write that one down on your skin "never make the same mistakes again"

BUT gather up the courage to make mistakes and invite failure
allure bigger challenges- results become grander -risks don’t matter
obscure past EVIL deeds - misused time -walking turns to running with ease
take a photo, say "cheese!" post the groove of happy on the line of loves lure

brushed hair is dry- twinkle in the eye -[Wink] I’m superfly!
rick james playing on spotify! ******, who says life can’t get you high?!
rock into the rhythm- step stage center- spotlight -dance solo -practice makes better
i’ve SILVERED into bliss -no remorse -forget remiss- gone without ever puffing at the spliff

shoes are shined -laces wound tight -green socks :) the days feeling alright
just might take a chance on one fear everyday -365 a year -"achievement" place here
smiling like crazy- no lady in the bed- not a problem inside my head
I’m not lazy just no game lately- and its better that way- time to refocus on myself instead

I’m working to be perfect or at least better than last
morning awaken the spoken energy of the daylight to pass
out the door by nine o clock -sun shine warms on the spot
first foot drives home the message, right foot cleans up leftover wreckage

down the block- leaves glisten green- butterfly- bees- heartbeats open at the seam
good morning trees -concrete streets -sleeping lights- leftover evenin cool breeze
I’m at ease with the reality created, manifested happiness -behind me shadows faded
beat the drums to my footsteps-cars burn down ozone so i chose my feet over keys

its too easy, too easy to feel this good, dr. seuss rhymes -everyone should
or -wish they could read a book -excuses are like time --if they could find IT they WOULD-
i make few plans to keep action in a blink span
I have a list for today-it started when I awake--It read:

TO CAPTURE NOW:
1-SING SHOWERS
2 DANCE ******
3 SPREAD LOVE

understand?

I'll get me a yappy dog
A small one
Scrappy.

He'll screech and holler
Like a rat lost in the dark
Oh how it'd be
To bear such a mark.

I'll get me a mousey dog
A youngish one
Mousey.

She'll annoy me in the mornin'
Evenin'
Night
Back to the height of the sun.
She'll tap and scrap till...

I can't take it anymore...

Maybe I'll get a biggun one
It'll protect me
Like a gun

She'll keep watch
While I be sleepin'
Till they put out some food
And continue on creepin...

Well maybe a medium one
Crazy as can be
Runnin' out in the mornin' sun

He'll play catch and give chase
Run with the pack
Cageless and free
Until I bring it inside...

Well, now it's gone to ***...
On the carpet...
Doggon it
Maybe I'll throw out that dish
Send 'em back to the homestead
Perhaps get a fish instead...

My wild love went ridin'
She rode all the day
She wrote to the devil
And asked him to pay
The devil was wiser
It's time to repent
He asked her to give back
The money she spent

My wild love went ridin'
She rode to the sea
She gathered together
Some shells for her head
She rode and she rode on
She rode for a while
Then stopped for an evenin'
And lay her head down

She rode on to Christmas
She rode to the farm
She rode to Japan
And we entered a town
By this time the river
Had changed one degree
She asked for the people
To let her go free

My wild love is crazy
She screams like a bird
She moans like a cat
When she wants to be heard
My wild love went ridin'
She rode for an hour
She rode and she rested
And then she rode on
Ride, c'mon

Sunshine, evenin' rain,
Clouds in the sky
And shapes we try
We are the children of stars,
Orphans from Mars,
We smile during the day,
We smile alight,
But on a blue moon Monday,
We cry during the night!!

I may tend, 'gainst the wind, finding wee rest soon;

this evenin' even, Dearest, Favorite Friend, whom

I may seek now & then to swoon. When mere rest stays this hand, 'neath midday stars or midnight sands, I speak! I sing! I croon! I ne'er want to let you go, tho your body is not here to hold in this land where you fear to turn. Can you naught see that I love you so? Pray tell me that you can, and know that I know you know -and you may e'en one day my love return.

1)*  *MORNIN

lake glass-still/somewhere a loon is calling;
coffee smells spiralling upstairs.
my bed (piled mattresses/wood floor)
is warm & the little birds
trill in the frontyard by the dodge
while in the woods
foxes/are wakin' up.

2)  EVENIN

[dock beers] . . .
on the water
shadflies squirm,
ignorant & simple & doomed.
jackfish tack lazily up and gobble
--taking their meals.
heron stands in the shallows
and from downlake the wind blows
sweetly/and in my head
i hear girls singing.

box ***** box! no one ever said bare x-rayed knuckle rough up, but my tongue ain't just an oyster, so here's to a champagne flute ***** and an oyster shell tilted for a slurp ultra crescendo, a runaway: writing philosophy lets you explore the many narrators that are impotent creating characters, while fictive narration has many characters and a few dimensions of narrations, like the *** in the city gall said: newspapers are printed, they're not supposed to convey stories, or be the post-modern basis for a skeletal anastrophe of storytelling.*

you will not get any more artists
when you educate blanks
to canvas a Gucci with a brothel
of colours that might be tamed
into the anti-artist vocabulary deciphering
cubism... brothel of colours?
well **** is red, **** is brush,
you get an orchestra of vowels
with hues, pink is for arson,
the other pink is for fish against stream,
they never air-guitar bass rhymes or
solos, it's a shame, bass guitar is more
akin to drums and therefore more memorable
than brown-nosing vocals and lead guitars...
well coral red became gangrene green
when the snorkelling offshoot to finding
the titanic wreckage took off...
i said the titanic rhythms of bass guitar
was more airy than the scandalous
pitch notes of guitar turned soprano
like a michael jackson wannabe...
twist of the ***** / twist off the *****...
get a screwdriver, scandinavian ha ha:
am i grey bearded enough to act out a norwegian
version of hamlet? no? gooooood...
that's dracula saying mornin' 'n' evenin'
together; i'm into revising tabloids
by making many references...
culturally explicit ***** crap... ******* elephant
***** wide... i'm all ****** up for it to be the
defining concern of our times.

"Back in my day," he began, swaying forwards and backwards on the wooden front porch bench, "we had to work for our cent. Traveled by foot and shoveled ****. Y'all kids have it too easy these days, I say!" I could not help but laugh. He always went on rants like this, it wasn't anything unusual. But usually, I never respond. Usually, I am hardly listening but today my blood stream was still so drunk from this morning's strong *** of coffee that words tumbled out of my mouth like *****.
"Hmm.. really? How'd you land that job?" I muttered sarcastically, desperate for conversation and painting cartoon flowers with faces and people and trees onto the driveway with chalk, my curly headed baby sister, Shelby by my side.
"Land? Kid, I di'nt land no job! I was forced the job! Family owned a farm, but o'course you already knew that!" He winced.
"Oh yeah.. I forgot." I returned apologetically.
"Yeah.. but everythin' was a lot less 'spensive those days. Got more bang for yer buck. Although, we never really had much buck anyway." Surprised, I put down the chalk and wiped my powdery, multicolored hands on my jeans, leaving a yellow and pink handprint just above my knees, but Shelby spoke before I could.
"You mean you were... poor?" She asked innocently.
Instantaneously, he stopped swaying and looked at Shelby and I blankly for a moment and then looked down at his bare feet. I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw his lip quiver. Feeling ashamed by my baby sister's tactless impulse, I picked up the blue chalk stick and stared at it, unsure what else to do. Many uncomfortable seconds passed when he finally spoke again.
"Poor? Naw. I was never poor darlin'! The size of yer wallet don't mean nothin' bout wealth. I had a roof over my head and shoes on my feet. Corn and bread and milk at the dinner table served same time every evenin'. My mama and papa tucked me in at night. I hated my brothas and sistas just as much as I loved 'em." He smiled to himself and fiddled with his fingers, hands in his lap. Glancing at the sunlit, open field view in the distance, it was obvious he was lost in retrospect. "Pfft! Poor? Never. And then I met yer grandmotha..." he giggled genuinely and shook his head. "That was it. She was like a diamond in a coal mine, that one. Her wit as fiery as her hair and a stare as sharp as her tongue. She had me at 'Get lost!'" He chimed, cackling. I couldn't help but match his laughter with my own and Shelby quickly joined, but once it died down, my thoughts did too and words escaped my mind. As well as his, it seemed. We sat quietly, silenced by the whirling wisps of wind that sung through the autumn air. Chatter wasn't necessary at that moment. Then, leaning back and resting his folded hands behind his head, he grinned and began to sway once again.
"Naw. I was the richest man alive."

I was born in the mud.
All soft and deep and sticky and cool.
I was born where the reeds shot up higher than my head and where everyone knew my name before i opened my eyes.
I was born where cicadas sung me to sleep in the evenin and the chatter from the river talked all night.
I was born where the sunset drew the longest shadows and where nothin smelled sweeter than magnolia trees.
I grew up where you could learn more on the river than at school and where bonfires burned brighter than the sun.
I grew up where the pretty girls had two first names and the boys bought their kisses with stale beer.
I grew up when the river was the only life for us and the screen doors were always slammin.
I grew up where we pretended the winter didn’t exist and where all our mamas worried when we were out.
I grew up in the passenger seat of our pickup trick and with swampwater in my blood.
I grew up where there were more dirt roads than paved and where the man in the suit was the enemy.
I was born with sunlight in my hair and sweat on my skin.
But I died in a fluorescent room all clean and sanitized.
All sharp and cold and hard and white.

the pope asked me what i really believed in, behind the lies and masks and the effect of saten.
you know what i told him?
wanna know what i said on that dry summer evenin?
i said that my holy book is read by the perfect way your hair looks messy when you just get out of bed,
when you call me late at night because our songs stuck inside your head.
i worship the way you always say that i know just what you think,
I'll pray to the way your voice goes low as hell when you talk about true love.
the way your eyes make stars appear in all that dreary darkness of...all the roads we take and lines we cross just to hold each other near. and at the end of this congregation i promise i'll see you soon my dear.
you give new colors to every flower. evey lemon, every tree. and the colors sparkle only when i hold you close to me,
on the red platos of navajo, honey bees making a song so much better than the radio, your voice the lead singer and my spirit feels the flow.
so yeah i know it's a little bit melo-dramadic, a bit manic, co dependent on the way you look at me, whatever you see that's just what i wanna be. babe.
and so my soul is saved with every touch from you.
preach in the pew about all the times we had at midnight solitary dances running from our taxes living life and death there's nothing left
but all that holy love we share.

so i told the priest the, minister the bishop and the father and the son and every single holy ghost who was there, that i'm in love with this girl and i dont give a ****, what you think force me to drink that holy water to set me on that straight and narrow bath, and i would laugh at all the **** that they believe will work on someone such as me.
and THAT'S how i got excommunicated
thankyou

the peach-grey behind the clouds. those opalescent seconds
don't you remember that day
when we held hands and it felt okay
and I cried because it stormed and
Neoprene vastness of vision. I watched you sleep and you didn't feel human
I'm not free this evenin g and I'm sorry
Those hours in the morning where early birds speak and tell me
go to sleep
Hands hot and bristling
And forced to
- 'and she painted throughout her life-'
And we have to talk?
Because I feel like I've lied
but when you're not here I feel
Cold. The Cold that spreads and burns
and tell me h-
"I don’t see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived."
She sat across from me, on the other side
of the room
A gentle flood of blood that felt to me like drowning
and agreed that I'd reached Inner Peace.
on the way home it stormed, and I cried.

all these little poems
but whence my little life?

today my son was swimming
and Magic amidst mind strife

will I be remembered
though she’s someone else’s wife?

1987 and 2019
I still sing Cuts Like a Knife

an unrequited, unrequested poem title that nonetheless,
(a fav. word, so economical) it’s a burr, an *** splinter,
festering, pestering, and it’s just easier to write it, cause
triple antibacterial ointment never cured a finger gone poem-
infectious

had two beers for breakfast, not my usual,
don’t care if you’re a Baptist or a Hassidic Jew,
I’m an ecumenical sorta guy, be informed that,
one was a long necked Corona (light), the other
a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which means I’m a ******* anti-Trump
globalist.

ain’t yet nine o’click, already had two fights with
my woman, is toastier a word? I took the negativity
position, but my heart wasn’t in it, cause I know me
words, was feeling muy ornery combative, a morning existential
verbalist.

the other was too infuriating, she asked for ten cherries,
after checking the calories per, which I knew and told her,
but she’s gotta check hit herself, so I brought a bowl uncounted,
annoyed, she anti-overage, threw the extras rudely on bed, she’s a
precisionist.

that I listen to music pretty much nonstop, even in my sleep,
and my fav. lyric of the late John Prine is from Montgomery & goes:
”But how the hell can a person, Go on to work in the mornin'
To come home in the evenin', And have nothing to say”
Amenist.

The German^^ dishwasher maschine summoned me near round
2 AM, TO INFORM ME  (vich is how de Choiman appliances speak)
without apology, that it was done with its multiplicity of cycles,
needy for emptying bowels forthwith, because that’s the way it is,
and wasn’t I gonna get up anyway, there are poets in Manila and Mumbai, waiting to speak their minds, re burning issues of life and pentameter, ah, them wisdom and wonderful people, all answer
seekers!

cause I’m an economist by habit, drink cups of coffee in trinity clips,
cause it’s efficiently economical, one less trip to the kitchen, and
anyone  who doesn’t drink at least three simultaneously, cannot be
redeemed by the verifiable angels in charge of saving coffee-colored
souls-tices.

my tempo is ironic, write poems too long for you attention deficit
disaffected teenagers, but haven’t read a book in years, cause
reading a poem is all I can manage nowadays, cause I’m a ****
attention deficit diseased old man, justifiable, when you got few days
leftist.

yes, I could go on, and on and on, but I hear your skin crawling and
sighs and moaning, enough already, while I don’t really care cause
every word I ever writ is a South Sea Pearl of something excellent,
truth is God has his ******* foot on my neck, whining way too loudly, “Jeez, enough” echoing your guttural cultural groaning, youse
alreadyists.

so I’m quitting here and letting y’all know, that I authored
the lyrics to American Pie, the longest song ever to be No.1,
the Don stole them, but as you can plainly see, it’s my style,^ when
we were drinking whisky and rye and told him it was copyrighted,
he laughed & said, I’m gonna copy them right down, ain’t that the kind of truthful ******* that drunk writers say because they think they are
“artistes.”

that’s about it for now, gotta do the breakfast dishes, so
Auf Wiedersehen, meine guten Männer und Frauen!


(yeah, yeah, learning German from Herr Bosch, the dish washer-man)

Jackson said, “I’m late for the sky!”
Mr Mojo Risin was way up high
Jimi and Janis went along for the ride
Cass brought a sandwich but no one knows why
More and more from the canyon store
Were knock knock knockin’ on heavens door
Supplanted from as far as the Eastern shore
Kerouac and Ginsberg found a spot on the floor
Miller and Kesey would soon descend
The Cuckoo’s Nest was owned by a friend  
Frank arranged an invitation to extend
Even the youngest Beach Boy would attend
Jerry soon came down from the bay
Via Terrapin Station riding Dennis’s wave
The only one not here was Dave
Cause in New York is where Ziggy stayed
Frey left the Motor City schemin’
For Phillips’s take on California Dreamin’
No one ever thought of leavin’
When Dusty sang, “In the cool of the evenin’”
Our House is a magical place
The memories put a smile on your face
They’ll  never take away the Leather and Lace
Because Laurel Canyon has unlimited space

I was born against my will in a land that God forgot                
My parents didn’t ask me whether I was for or not
Anyway I learnt to appreciate it and to make with.                      
I was a spoiled child for I was loved and also clever                    
Mama’s proud and cooked my food, though already  a liar,    
My dad I did not see him too much, he was a blacksmith.    
If there’s one very single thing I learnt all through these years
About moral, equality, justice, life, about here :                      
There ain’t no point and  you only live to struggle and writhe ;

The world it’s noisy, it’s foolish, it’s random, and it’s torn                
But still, I hadn’t been yet to the place where the buses get born.


The school it’s been a funny place to grow up teacher and child,
They lock you up learning life in a box and still I smiled,
The woman she was **** though couldn’t know what it meant
They stuffed my skull ‘til full and they blew the wind out my ears
With weary new ideas, with politically correct fears ;
After a necessary brainwashing, ready to be sent
Ready for society, for the actual system
You don’t understand it, but It’s made to make you one of them
They don’t even know it’s their own closed freedom that they lent

The greatest of all: it’s in the same school about it you been warned
And still, they keep well hidden the place where the buses get born


All the time I played football, I’s a great swimmer and all
They taught me to respect my body, to keep a plain soul
They told me to be generous and righteous and modest
And I was celebrated as the best, very handsome,
Clever and nice, have friends, don’t be a ****** or lonesome ;
It was fair and I agreed, to earn respect, to hold high my chest
I was proud and fulfilled to be me, you’d call that vanity
But you helped as well the lie, nor missed I a quality
We arrive here naked, my myself ain’t mine the slightest

Against the world’stones which you belong I been carved and worn
If only we’d known  the place where the buses get born

Then on the way I became adolescent and aware
Of the happy merry-go round, of my weight on the chair
They told me I was windlike free, free to serve somebody
Overall to think as they do, as their fathers done before
To hate ******, Ignorance and Hatred and all the wars
To vote right or left and to avoid what they call ****
They gave those names to the different parties for me and you
Having easy to choose, without knowledge, interest too
You don’t need it for sure when you remember the big History

We can tell you what you want, even that chicken is corn
Cause you’d never seen the place where the buses get born


While living and probably others meaningful thingies
Came suddenly that handful of flaming pies harmonies
My brain couldn’t believe  my ears and it tried to tell them
But my mouth’s busy singing what I soon know was Music
Later on behind a folk jew it melted with lyrics
That’s when I bought my guitar,but first I went to ask mum
Some insects were able to write a melody so plain
Like it could  ease me support me and even cease the pain
But half of me died when I realized they’dnever come

I’ve been caught by the thirty years old bullet that shot Lennon
He must lie waiting for me, in the place where the buses get born.


I was told about the religions, lies and confusion
My dad always believed in Nothing without exception
God ain’t something but a joke, a lie, a drug, and a tool
Created by mankind and used and believed and deceived
For explaining and getting all that he hadn’t received ;
But the invention became the master and put the rules
The expert they tell you now it’s good story and advice
It is love and light for the humans, just like the green mice
Do you think we need it, d’you truly think we're such a fool

We don’t want you ages twisted manufactured gods to adorn
For the only truths reside inside the place where the buses get born

Thinking a while, it’s just matter of interpretation
When you speak with hidden words, expect incomprehension
I’m not the one to decide if either the terrorists
That we so truly abhor are even right or are wrong
Nor am I to say using violence is to be strong ;
But time is a big wheel, and for instance the communists :
Ain’t we all looking for equality between men and more
When it will stop turning, when truth’ll be knocking at your door
At the trial of History they’ll be hung or utopists

The movie can’t be finished  by the end of the popcorn
Nothing never ends except in the place where the buses get born



Let’s talk about *** now because we are all here for that,
The dwarf, the Jew, the tall, the black, the women and the fat
Sometimes the disabled, excuse me if I had a laugh
Stupid instinct, horrible animal-like, true love so
When two lovers so entwined forget a while the sorrow
We learnt sciences freely and openly on photograph
I lost half my time thinking about and trying to get it
Maybe more, I’m a man, I’m a ***, I’m a stupid ***
If I have a ***** if I’m gay, now I can choose my path.

Although I don’t like it, it’s normal, I can even watch ****
But I haven’t been excited since in the place where the buses get born


T’was a long time and now, I met that rainbow-voiced bird
We tried to talk, we tried to sing,  although nothing was heard
But as Lea says ‘you cannot expect too much, can you’
I went to the cupboard where she keeps well seen all her secrets
Some daddy’s book and cried photographs for my fake cigarettes
She held a handful of her soul and french fries necklace too
Fortunately I was blind and could only read the words
I wanted to talk about Wednesday afternoon, the third
Now I got my hopes in my pocket, and my pride to chew.

And these visions of Keira, they keep me up past the dawn
The night never falls in the place where the buses get born

My stand-up dreams are haunted but for a colorself ghost
It keeps on coming and going, either the train’s there or lost
The thief he’s on the flight but on his back still lie his lies
The Ladies of the game play quietly their tricks until night
‘Pleasure is the aim’ they argue, and me, I’ve stopped to fight
My body it’s wired and distant, like wish were my minds
The commander-in-chief he’s busy with thoughtful statements
The memory lays far with her, in her kitchen, in her basement
And on the paintings, on the screen, in each and every line

There’s something beautiful and suicidal and full of scorn
With that kind of love that doesn’t matter in the place where the buses get born

When Love ain’t love when a pile of regrets lies on your floor
And you’re patiently waiting Forgiveness to cross the door
Where will you turn to, who will you ask and where will you go
When you’ve lost only the chorus of all you need is love
When your clouds have hidden from you the faithful stars above
What will be left, what rope will you hold and what will you know
You could try alcohol, drugs, meaningless ***, try to have fun
You could buy forget  yet doctor ain’t cheaper than a gun
There is hardly no mistake you regret less than a blow.

Everyone must have a conversation with the father of the sun
No cries ever come out  the place where the buses get born


The truth is still present  you know, it lies beneath the waves
You should’ve seen her face when she told me Eleanor’s been saved
Likewise images of she and her impregnate my skin :
As the masterpiece unmatched socks near a pile of dead books
She hadn’t read them-she needn’t- I can tell by her looks :
I know her well, I had little time with her and two evenin’
When Celine burnt a cigarette-shaped unclosed scar in my heart.
All those pictures I recollect preciously since we’re apart.
She’s the reason and the ends of all my thefts, ‘f all my sins.

I shout for her, strumming madly , blowing my hollow horn
For her to hear me there, in the place where the buses get born

I run barefoot right to your door,
The air so sweet, I gulp and gasp for more,
My heart filled with flowers of gold,
Tickling my lungs with butterflies so pure…
I jump and dance, over the ponds on your sidewalk,
Laugh and sing of feelings I had for a lifetime,
My head feels like it’s about to pop off,
Hoping to tell the three words I had learned…
You greet me with a smile and nod,
No feel of affection or closeness at all…
You say “Evenin’” and greet me inside,
I stand barefoot and flustered then let out a sigh.
I try to speak but you just lay on the couch,
Looking at the ceiling and having no doubt,
You know you won’t dance with me in the night,
Nor will ours hearts will be intertwined.
I still laugh and tell you my tale,
Of how I learned the three words and yelled:
“I love you!” Now silence was still,
Buzzing in my ears and you finally stand straight,
You smile and nod, formal and just,
You pat my back and give me a tug,
You lead me outside and wish a good night,
I never felt so cold in my life.

how can i write anything spectacular, these days?
of all the days: these are not: bon jovi's these days:
full album listened to...
am i going to become a plain jane medium
of events? hardly...
i can't write anything spec-ta-cular...
because... i find enigmas in the details:
the devils can heave their own load of events...
i can't write anything spectacular...
i'm not mad enough to drink 14 strong coffees
akin to Balzac to keep myself: tuned...
the base event: walking at night having your eyes
stolen by your shadow: ending up looking
for a mirror - or a puddle - neither readily
available: back into sketches of language...
because a narrator will hardly come -
or a full cast ensemble - choir-esque...
there's the happy to get along with:
old enough - ft. ricky skaggs & ashley monroe...
pirate of the: ca-rr- ca-rrí-b'ean...
and not: pirates of the: cari-b'evenin'suss...
carribean and not: carry-bean... mr. bean:
mr. magic beans to you...
back in england: as is always the governing
precursor -
mastic fantastic and mr. magic magnolias!
in the construction trade...
turns out rubber is also the prized asset
of constructing a tent -
and the not enough bundles of ****** are
hard to find...
but i can't write anything spectacular...
what's to be allowed: status: spectacular...
when a dancing shadow is everything
while i stand rooted into form like
a turnip and a stump of a former glory of oak...
the shadow that falls from the moon
and lands under a streetlamp...
and i say: forget the mirrors!
i'm looking at the prize: of when narcissus
finally made it to hades!
with additional details... something
of any worth of anything...
a drunkard lullaby who wakes up to a delirium
before finding the calm sea
and a boat... 'who dare bring women
and mirrors onto a ship?!'
voyage like none other...
and we would bring chickens for the eggs...
and violins to ease our ears from
shabby carpenters' work on the deck...
and... we most certainly brought
flutes with us... hell... the whole brass section
of an orchestra... to somehow pray...
and appease... the Anemoi...
if not eased by jazz we'd **** or at least
do the second best of a clarinet quartet concerto...
i did find that men read for a reason:
while women read to pass the time -
passing time -
with all the given space...
it's that one aspect of physical reality
that remains: play-dough riddling...
the Anemoi as the lesser -
otherwise the grand ghost of a breath that
pushes the Gaia into a pirouette in orbit...
some call it the wind -
i call it the ghost's breath - the arch ghost -
otherwise: well h'america is very, really:
the pristine heidegger base of a / the: "being" there...
sidenote... as h'america happens...
old europe is finding its locum among
the feral tribes that: once upon a time
used to nibble -
h'america just happens...
what the hell happened to the mandolin
via the banjo?
it's nonetheless such a distance...
the culture is exported but...
as the exported wheat...
it never becomes the returned dough
of a bread to be eaten -
the wheat to flour process probably
passed via Columbia or... some other cheap-***
metaphor...
these feet stood in russia...
these eyes saw russia...
i hardly think i will see or stand on the ground:
just across the pond...
"mighty me" for wanting to retain the remains
of whatever integrity is to be eaten:
as a leftover...
no qualms...
but i have been duly looking for...
substitute cultural references...
if i had to dig as far back as teutonic crusader
folk songs... that's quiet telling...
because this language is better written -
should it ever be said...
i'm... not exactly looking for a stage -
and clown-make-up.