Stories, reports from wars past, haunt me,
in spirit sensing wondering,
perplexing twisted strands
from National histories
kept for posterity, seen as certain
evidence of life being as reasonless
as distant suns in swirling galaxies.
The business of making ends meet,
make any punctual sense, ends now.
------------------
Dear, the word, intends
to express worthiness, valued
by cost, not
to make or gain the dear thing, but
by pain
at the loss,
remembering reason,
reattaching whole
required why lines, dangling
Among the many joys,
eudaemonia, silliness in the sense lost
nine cousin romps in the lawn sprinklers,
secrets sacralized sold
for students tempted so,
sacred vow bound logic
-
mid-14c., logike, "branch of philosophy that treats of forms of thinking;
the science of distinction of true from false reasoning,"
-
Refine elemental whying, trying, taking
for good, leaving
as worthless but
for marking
in mind, poisonous deception
Games of getting to the perfect peace,
having no driving curiosities or prides,
mystic authority granted me, poetically,
costly so-called sciences, I am, by faith,
for which homeostasis is the reason, ready,
balance of energy store and energy conversion
self guided discovery, so deep is one's ignorance,
self sorting discourses through mortal events, time
since e verily was allegorically massively imaginable
at thought sped enlightenment intended
to disrupt rote thought, symbol assignments
and general intelligence deceptive practices,
the bread and butter of the business of Psyche,
logic by which mankind live and learn and lead
those yet to be to become augmented generally
intelligent choosers of values… versus costs, price
personal, what portion of one's daily bread is paid,
back by me, the muse user enjoying being alive,
and safe, high in the coastal foothills environs,
practically perfect weather for happy humans,
gatherers more than hunters,
crafters more than manufacturers,
traders more than sellers or buyers,
but lacking religion, woe is them, indeed, if
all the witnesses to Hell, sent back to spare us,
perdition due the ignorance of original foul sin,
against the sacred knowledge of good and evil.
Live evil lurks in mere repetitioning prayer error.
Hooks in Jim Morrison's oevre, say… you cannot
imagine a reality without disgusting disdain for order,
order, in the court… witness under oath testing if we
agree, this is the ever we got this morning, as we rose
from slumber… we, thee linking me… in mind, inspired
thought, amused bemusement refusing confusing truths,
God love Hell, love's it, or…
blasphemy, accuse me, gospel performer professional,
j'cuse, indeed. Did I dare to die for the American Story,
Home of the free, Land of the brave, oh, say, can you,
remember the first hand grenade WHUMP! can you,
not mirror neurologically callused startle response wise,
real deal, dead people, blood, smells, smoke, silence,
deaf deal with it… accept
therapy, publish, or perish, laugh and live free in truth,
not simple, but sub-elementally perfectly sublime
---------
The news from my future,
is mentally actively spiritually leading,
holding my circumstantial ordinariness,
spending a lifetime to reach one last day,
which can, we may imagine, be any day.
---------
Meaning in landmarks set as scenes,
who imagines whose mind's lost all hope,
who can, as a God-fearin' man, *** boy, cowboy,
drifter with a gift of gab and a deck of cards.
Bet me I did not beat my own demons, just
now, for the rest of my life, on the most likely last
day, I spend this way, like it were that very one.
Obfuscation, cultural integrity, opposing
the holy Pharisees of mutual warring wills.
---------------------
In word form, as a thought, logic is open
seeping sneaking suspicions suggesting surety,
has an am big is us re-both-knowing ness spirit form
for a ready reader, list as doth the spirit, sure
wind in a gape jawed, asking if this may be real
as has been realizable
since commercial radio, propagating productive
personal mysterious
signals sent via zeitgeist,
which reasserts itself, prodigious certainty of purpose,
what do I wish, what do we wish, we, with us in it, me
and you wishing we felt some fealty due the heroic me…
what if expressing a self molded
in a complex religious mystery granted symbols just as
right angled and perpendicular to gravity, per se
timely, chance, definite purpose, be as good as truth,
no harm, no foul, patiently pretending toward goodness,
as do little green apples, and children in my vicinity, true,
all the children in my house, and yard today, are good,
universal attestations, any ever experiencing, such a July,
presume these kids are as happy as can be, today
where I happened just to be, he who chose
to stick and stay and make it pay, by faith
some how, kindalike an intuition,
by now, this'd be real, an actual poetic privilege,
the truth that once the best that I could think or ask, a day,
whole, no ritual mass or mirror mantra back atcha, one day,
surrounded by children, literally running around my house,
and squealing little girl laughter at little boys rolling in mud.
I truly hope you know just how I feel, but as the old man, the actual experience, aim at that, I told my self, when I decided HelloPoetry works as well as therapy.
