I never know how far I'm supposed to
run to satisfy you
to placate you
to silence you.

I never know how hard I'm supposed to
sweat to drown out your words
and keep the venom from pouring through
the cracks in my heart too wide to
cement.

I never know if I can bleed you out of
my system through the broken skin
of my calluses torn off by my own
desperation.

-trj

Did you ever have one of those days,
That causes more than a few eyebrows to raise?
Black clouds looming inside your head,
And fools rush in where angels fear to tread? (a.pope)

Then start by lifting up just one corner of your mouth
Point it towards the sky, DO NOT go south.
And with your index finger, push up the other flection,
Keep it right side up in the very same direction!

With this smile take a long deep and meaningful breath,
And Sing a song that warms your heart...as your mind forgives & forgets.
Stand tall young one, cause your living in the light,
This day has past but tomorrow you'll reignite!

less religious? be

less signal sending?
less signal ceiving and re
cipericle

deciphering de
ceptive fashionable effectations

fectupt old
fashion once wigs and lace,
gave place to coat and tie and,
on occasion, tails
jewels and veils, seven of each was the sup
er position in the initial polarity
twixt V1a and V2a.1

We were fashioning a reality, your polarity bogus
science pierced more attention spans

than I can spare in seven minutes
define or refine, what was the resolution in reality

less signal sending?
mo' signal ceiving and re
cipericle
ceptive fashionable effectations
okeh, got it. Zero beat. Same same spectral harmony.
Nobody in hell knows ever knew that.

Lose the fig leaf, lose the tats and scars,
match the bloodshed with the idea
in
humility we acting as if we stand

as pillars

as sticks in mud, bruised but unbroken, bound
in smouldering flax,

we stand, sistere, dressed for no carnal war,

we came as poets holding up the ceiling with twigs
from the forest of trees of knowledge

the we we are in, we can stand upright, you and me

confidant

fashion is un sanct, un sanct, unsanctified
aknown known, y'know,

it's all cause play, excuse me

the uniform dress code bars what from my kid's school?
First pocket knives,

Now, a simple T with a meme,

and you co
municate, une-meme-icate,
possible be
be probable degree or dimension or layer or ply

complex, many tangled
plys of piles of pleasant points in time that did rhyme
reason
with well enough, alone

meme
is a better measure than moment, I think,

How much of never

is twixt us, e pluribis us, the unems

twixt me and thee what we are
touch

ing ting

sound, think vibratory, earth ratt'lin'

miracles, un belief

the act of unbelieving lies
as if there is a re

ality under lying

asif no lie can pass the true test

in the first theerum of one (rrroll therrrrum!)

The first of its kind from my own mind

a universe

ex
panding, like Bazooka Double Bubble.

whose lips? Jungish child askt the rock,
who sits? who sits on?

Rock staid quiet. Your lips...

senseless... no connecton to any re already re
ferred to

oh, no, bless m'soul, some lies are buts,
feeble patches

over light pierced points
in consistent insistence on possible  secrecy,

nothing

empty moments pierced

enlightenment,
thin light is not no light. That is a wee

thinklink. Follow a point  and find,

probably, eventually several ideas unthunk

until you imagined someone musta thunk it,

and realized
yourself,

as not Christ, and not dead,

muttering, who could not 'athunkit. How musta been involved.

from that prickofapen. Imagine a wall, not a Socratic
shadow show,
not a barrior, a plain 2-d -ic, flat wall in a dark room where

we go to pray for impossible things to be possible,

and we are answered with a scene
from the street below, through a hole in the shutter about
yea big,

camera obsura projected on that wall we all imagine

the fourth wall. A flection from another angle,

same light all squeezed through a tiny
ity bitty empty place in

time and space,
splashes up from the intersection of 3rd
and Broadway, Nashvul, 'bout a block from th Rhyman

spreads in each vector of probable vision

splashes against that wall we imagined,

That forth wall reflects each pixel, each photonic quant
you should have seen

had you ever gone there, at that time.

hello again odd-book,
been a minute since
breathless words have
fallen here. since this
hand struck words from
self-interred meter. and
longer still since pen-
aided conception has glown
through adverbial muck.
    and again odd-book,
with pages of many facet,
resentment is not found
when returning to
             the Universal.
repentance with slurred
words – with qualming hands –
never again to feel necessitation
when returning home. when
returning with seriousless
vanity to witness some re-
flection of age since past.
    and here odd-book,
has been created metic-
ulous noise. here has been
beauty expressed, alongside
glory’s antithesis. here be-
came an ‘I’ that is new,
that is ruined and interregna,
that’s in whole encephalic.
    and here again, odd-book,
       “i am dandelion,
            i am magnolia,
               i am albatross."

the moon planned to hide

and it kept its promise

cars, they shot like lethargic bullets on sleeted streets

and I kept my focus on them

like they were the anchor to my ship



I remember the lines of songs

and I sung them to myself

I love you but it’s hard to be near you

so I just stand still and count

one car, two- now three



the colors are mute

and the sky still falls

layers and layers of sleet and I savor

wasting my time

standing outside on mirrors



it breaks, it shatters

and on a shard, my flection-

lodged in my foot, a sick deep cut that’s

making my shoe a well

but I’m waiting anyway.



you will be arriving any minute now,

I know it.

Common instincts to us all, occurrences as we live on
rolling rrrs an' 'idin' gdhs, f' grins and grunts
'uman 'umor ta

Harvesters, Hunters, Herders,

Makers, all. That we had no war,

or none this we can imagine.
Our war is so far past
wars reasons in pasts
called
right-used, good for the goodness made
in
founding of this bubble of national pride we re
side in;
so
that we feel com
pelled - driven as a nail

to say…

Wait-- new voice
fessorial, it fesses this is fact:
ligation in obligation is samesame
ligion in religion,
okeh. a liege oath was never valid, no free re
involved entity may be ligated for a fief,

no soul sould to rock and roll promo **** crossroad
' make y'famous
moonshine story teller bribe
'bout
no spell

I don't care why, just how, for now

words picked as gem facets
flash a flection re
count
the times you've seen things

you
could would
not lieve be true, until

it happened to you right, and yeah,
it was no big deal,

like waking under a bo tree in Asia.

The final pages of 2020.
The year, ALL CAPS, THE YEAR

we appeared
asreal as the famed angel of the same name,
black-lit in a glow

all shimmery, like on TV, retro greys, cold
slightly blue,
we may remember seeing this, through our own
child-eyes, but watch

your own pair of eyes, the window through which
your own soul sees,
now
through a glass, darkly, through our own re
flection making faces of all our wannave
na-I've dared
be
worse. For a joke nobody found very funny.

Those whose laugh is like hell let loose on the
wierdo;

they laugh, but first.

Peace laughs last,

forever, as a smile you wear, on your best days.

---
Would you believe, I've lived my most recent year,
the measured bit of time,
years of our life, on earth with you,
visiting the source,

living words, accepted as fluid in any compre-sensible stretch

to touch the download. Off… on, almost
ever, times and time and half-a time- hold our breath

shhh sixty cycle tuning, even the little space heater
harmonizes

we, we sing, we

susssssss pect sus piscious suspicious - see sci causa sui

almost persuaded…

lieve us take a stab at being asreal as we were

imagining, the long and the short and the tall

medium of transfiguration,
a great notion,

taken to heart, after I, Kenurchka Klumpen, fell in parts.

Pieces strewn though out the being isting eninsting,
possessing I-rights with all-in
life-bound
springs
gushing
free-truth seekers fed on gifts informing angels
comprised of those silver winged
Castaneda crows feats

as we squint into the old mama pine, seeing

points of sunstuff cone-ing from
tree to me to thee

Yes, all the promises yet to be defined asreal,

you get the message and admit
it is more than one can imagine thinking or asking,

Life on earth, after all that has ever happened,

we are the ones, we who read,
we step forward in to our best next yet, watch…

the complete idiocy of straining your brain around, im sitting here and the cards are facing in that direction. how do i read a book upside down held the wrong-way-too? well, you can get, i suppose, into a total knowingness that knows what all the books in the world say, but i'm afraid that you would read all the books at once. your selectivity gets poor without locations. you would know, but you wouldn't know what you knew if you're going to do mystic stunts , do mystic stunts.



'belief interdicts as cosmic judge, the velocity of the gesture cutting out the faceted crystal ball, how much, which position, and why? these proclivities are involuntary, part of the unconscious low intensity biophotons of tangible flection pondering on utility of the ego in reflexive coagulation in shredding, dressing of the christ child, emitted and divulged from the genesis. different rooms, same crazy stairs.'

The eternal passes by in the form of a ***** and the madonna; the desire and the ******.

tantamount to the flame of your heart is the memory of the matter the matter of memory as 'porous' to the propelling pyramid of eye that blends with the Azure (Sun) ... rising a shadow that dwindles the smell of decaying flowers, a bouquet of insects, animals, rocks and trees and a translucent umbrella for the communion rain for you to mount the stairway to heaven through illusive glittering of the flicker of the flame of your heart, balmed on the brain exists the embalmed spirit. Lets magnify it so we can see all the insects of the rocks, all the Life and allow the glass-beads to become mirrors of the spherical-celestial, follow the trail of slime by the insects and smell the odour of flower-form without motion, just pure conduit of thought for the panoply of the prepositional neural network that wah-wahs in the prams and of course the drum-rolling-trumphet-mysterium of forbidden juice, to ooze the noble man in by sensory-nector, perhaps beyond & above to the ink of clouds where imagination lies without a pen ! BUT THAT ALREADY HAPPENED

the more articulate you explain things, the more they will believe
the vow of silence in a distant monastery is of no use when the cry of the christ Child is right outside that same silence, let's all pray.
the telepathic parapraxis
you look at an object and the way that the object is presented to you and if you don't see that door closed or tap shifted in the correct directional then your entire relationship is ruined, something like that.
'Dante... Bruno. Vico.. Joyce'  Feel the Void
'that question was shy'
'your larynx is detuned because your cerebrum is boring and your amygdala is *******'

There is a space, between life and death
A fine line without silver lining
It's filled with despair and feelings of crap
There is a rope on my neck
So tight I feel it sinking in
Somehow I am not dead, well not yet
I'm suppose to feel remorse and regret
But the only regret I have is not dying sooner
I can't yell for help, not while I'm still alive
I'll wait till I'm nothing but a floating bag
Even so my language is of no sense
It's my soul, it is just standing right there
and watching tears from a hollow hole in my sockets
Well I wish I could talk right now even for 2 seconds
I'd tell it I'm happy and I'm glad I'm going to die
The rope on my neck, sinking in deeper
I can bearly breathe, this weird horrid tone
Like a dying suffocating wild hog
Through my skin and through the bruises on my neck
My body is turning pale I know it's in terrible pain
It'll end soon, trust me, it'll soon end
I see the flection through the puddle of blood on the floor
I look pretty weird like superman in his blue and red costume
With kryptonite on his neck
my soul why are you just standing there
Is it my dry voice and red eyes
Or the way my body like a swinging rope
Finds a wall after wall bashing like a wrecking ball
Is it why you're still here, does this pain fascinate you
Find open clouds it's almost 3 seconds
I don't feel remorse or regret
The only regret I have is not dying sooner.