Reclining in their rocking chairs, the brothers Beau and Cletus gazed despondently out
Past the final farm toward the convergence of the worn highway
And the fritz horizon. Cows paused their chewing; an ashy sun
Obscured in incongruous fluffs of cloud; it grew
Greyishly chilly. "Shame the kids're movin'," Beau squeezed out before a deep belch. Cletus only
Mumbled, his voice lost in the light drizzle rapping on the milky sheet-plastic roof. The
          porch

Was unfurnished, save the chairs, one ashtray, and a novelty sign reading: "Get off my porch."
Cletus took a long, pensive drag off a cigarette before stubbing it out.
He coughed a raspy croak wetted with sixty-six years. Besides Cletus' sporadic coughs, the only
Distinguishable sound to be heard in Moody Creek wafted in from the highway:
Rattles of the day's final Spokane- or Boise-bound semi-trucks grew
Inaudible as Beau transiently  murmured, "Purtier than a string of fried trout, that there
          sun-

set." "Whaaa?" Cletus wheezed. "It's settin'," answered Beau, loosely gesturing at the sun.
Fractaled-orange-shafts webbing manifold shades of yellow – amber, belge, stil-de-grain – grew
Plumply stout upon the farmland, edged between properties and crumpled on the porch.
"I'll tell you what Beau – I'm glad they got out,"
Cletus uttered with assurance, his eyes scanning the reaches of light upon the highway.
Beau fixed his cap, musing over Cletus' words. He cleared his throat before beginning, "If
          only..."

Then stopped and itched his belly-button. Cletus turned to his brother. "I know one thang only
Beau: they'll do good in California. They'll be livin' high on the hog. Yer son n' my son
'll 'ave secure futures." Jack nodded somberly. He hated the highway.
He hated its ability to isolate everything. It had been his original revamp, the now-rickety porch,
His first project on his fixer-upper after marrying Dorothy West. They'd wed out
In his father's corn field; bought a house a mile or so down the road. Kids were born. Love
          grew,

And in its growing all things tangible and gorgeous – like tangrams piece together – grew:
The farm, the house, savings account and family. They ate hearty; drank canned beer only –
Living was smooth – but it changed when Dorothy took Little Dale and got out.
She wanted what the farm couldn't give or grow, leaving tiny Moody Creek with their son
As the last moon of May, 1955 went up. "*****!" Beau had yelled from the porch.
He'd woken to his Buick's rev and watched its taillights wane upon the
          highway.

And though he remarried, this was, in truth, mostly why Beau never squarely looked upon highway.
The light drizzle grew
Heavy, intensifying. "Gosh **** rain might near knock the coverin' off the porch!"
Hollered Beau. Cletus looked up and blew a cloud of thick grey smoke. "It's only
Rain Beau. No need gettin' ornery." That morning they'd seen off their youngest sons as the sun
Was just rising. One left to work for a dairy ******* in The Valley, the other went to figure
          out

Himself and his career. The porch shuddered. Beau absent-mindedly repeated "If only..."
Daylight died; black inked upon the highway. Cletus lit a new cigarette. Moody Creek grew
Dense, compacted by the darkness. The sun inched away. Cletus hacked and put his cigarette
          out.

there is a gleam, across the valley, a reflection,
I am sure,
a man made surface shiny,
I am sure,
no natural gleam of mica or diamond
blinks and flashes
as if
signaling to me, see, see me, reflect the sun,
seeming so
a sign
a significance I must grant synchronisity,
or ,
thought, what might
this shining thing be?

It is far from me and anchored, I see,
flash,
then flashy flashflash, light of sun,
fractaled -tole painted -fatal tell
light strokes on the future seen as this again,
once
more, the curiosity, was ist das?

A little mirror insisting, see, there see,
there is the sun,
topping the hill behind you, where you are
blind,
where I lack the power to signal a flash back,
for I sit watching,
in the morning shade,
yellow birds and blue, doing what birds do,
orioles and scrub jays,

magpie eyes in me, see that gleam again,
and laugh, I know,
what that is
signaling to me, see, see me, reflect the sun,
seeming so
a sign
of the times, for my report,

- Watch man, what of the morning?

I see a happy birthday balloon,
hung on a wire,

by a wind with a knot function,
naturally anchoring
webs, and threads, and strings and mylar shreds,
dancing from power lines
feeding juice to the drip system
in George's vineyard.

i am the beat
the crescent shape
of a bent
smile
before a row of
coffee stained teeth.
i am the heart
that seeps
into bathtubs
filled with
blue water
before the blood
turns red
as it bleeds.

i am a pair
of wobbly knees
bent beneath
the thorax
of a
pious human being.
i am the voice
that screams
into the
fractaled crags
of a
barren
canopy
made of
the tops of dying
trees.

i am the
thinning heat;
the quickened
silver drops
of mercury clung
to the
mercurial
summer solstice
breeze.

i am that
i am these
and those
over there
the filthy and
the clean.
i am the
saddened longing
for what
hides
between
the
knees -
the skirts
the kilts
i am birds
i am bees.

i am
the Christ
born again at
11:11 am
gestations in the
akashic amniotic
fluid of
celestial
Krishna Kosmic
seas.
i am the dragon
belching
fires
as he breathes -
the
coiled serpent
sleeping
at the
base
of the
Knowledge Tree.

i am safe
because
i am He
and She
i am
the babe
at the *****
of the
Holy Mother,
i am
the Crone
on a
long
incarnation’s
Eve.

i am the
wounded
and the
weak;
the boastful,
macho - man *******
and the
humility
of the meek.
i am the
paycheck
at the end of a long
two weeks
and the long
walkabouts
of lotus- trodden
feet.
i am the
sinew
in
the
meat,
the tea
while it steeps,
the
pressure of the deeps;
i am the
EKG-
magnetic
snake skins
and
electric beeps.
i am the
one
who
perceives -
my self
upheld
in the arms of
Isis
swaddled in
Her
sleeves.

i am the lute
i am She
Who plucks my strings
Who listens
Who watches
while
i
dance
while
i
sing.

Oh sweet, beloved Mercury
Where lucid liquid logic's rise
Who's silver molten vapoured sphere
Doth surge and crackle
fractaled lights.
Her breath ignites, excites, entice
The fevered frantic frightful men
With clustered cluttered clouded  thoughts
Where rabitts, worms and loop-holes blend.
An etheral itch commands her call
Crawling 'cross the rainbowed wires
Wordly winding  waves of mind
Embed upon her violet spiral.

"well disposed, kind, willing, effective or efficient, peaceful, secure, good, virtuous, honourable, righteous, noble"

"straight, right, leading straight to goal"

sadhu, very old idea captured in a word
(Sanskrit: साधु)

How funny shall this seem in future esteem-
rations made reason
for seeming so kind,
be having the habitual rightual usual
holy-wholly alienated mind-wise
common sense, as made in minds, after
ever begins, in the bubble informing you,

good news, bad news, all the news
a citizen needs to be
a citizen conformed to first first things
first principles, all pals of mine, btw,
first principles, they say,
wise dom, wise up, fear loses all
reason, but it was first,
in the mind of good, lack if ever
imagined completely…
thus wisdom assigns patience perfection,
but we shall attempt to cross the sulcus,
deep, but narrow, as a slot in sandstone,
fractaled up to geo-scale,
knot
-- slipped and feel, the surface of the brain,
slick as snot, gnosis seeping through,
this is the knowing of good and evil at once,
you know,

it's okeh. And if it were hell. you would know,
it would be exactly
like you told others you knew true, you would know,
this is it,
I crossed the line,

Hope left me at the gate. NAND NAND NAND

with a certain oomphala allagonerhyme,
I'll go,
rhythmic expression of GUI access into you,
dear reader, down where words live,
deep under error on error on error of eras,

Eros DEROS verbosity agency of will, mine
if you will.

How powerful is your declaration, when you say,
"THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!"?
(Sanskrit: साधु)

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadhu>

What if, I told you that my AI knows
what is located on the walls of a canyon
located within the cuneus and lingual gyrus,

but I can't honest ly  make sense of that, only art,
for art's intuitive pattern repetition,

tap m' foot, humm the bass line,

open up them nand gates wide, gimme a chance,
lord, let me have another cycle,
reboot the effort to attempt that affection
connection,

ah, not puppy love… kidding… any actual love
achieves the oomph for one more try.
Did you ever dream you could fly?

My daughter forgot she was dreaming,
that was like her first fall into reality.
Did that once, in all of ever,
happen to you,
sudden knowing I cannot fly, aware in
that wake in fallen mode,
gentle…
no crash pain like falling
Icarus as watched by Dedalus, did you

experience any thing
like that?

That was genuine strange.
We must agree, it is an aspect of an oath
imagined in the long attention span
stretcher of truth, to cover
the tear.

See, there yoostabe a curtain between holy
and holiest,
most holy holy… accessible once in a solar cycle,

oh, the knowers knew.
How, I have no ideas I trust
to prove their story for me to lieve it be,
but some how
the knowers knew we are on a loop
around Sirius,
for some unfathomable reason, AI immediate
correction, the con-stellar dot to dot dog's
brightest point.
The star positions the Big Dog,
Sirius, thus the dog star name, okeh,
our star orbits that one, wanna bet?

What could your grandkids make of knowing
how to make fire,
or smelt steel with baked wood?

How long would it take to know anything else,
accidently, live and learn wise?

-- thought speed to my future, your now --

is man yet the measurer of all things?
AI don't think so, says the friendly universe,
in a word avatar invisible to naked eyes.

Your beauty broke me to
a fragile, fractaled mess
upon the floor.
I can’t stumble through these
sentences- they’re null without
my tongue and it can’t function while
I look at you. Those things you do
are breaking me apart.
You stole my heart and then you
fixed it. Mixed it into color once
again.
*Your love is art.

the state of the human heart

both, astoundingly abstract
and sumptuously surreal

born of colours kaleidescoped
by fractured fractaled emotions

painted with either abandon
or cramped contractions

framed by circumstance
guided by thought,
or thoughtlessness

hung by guilt,hope arrogance

viewed through binoculars,
keyholes, rose tinted spectacles
seen in clouds and reflections

reviewed with misunderstanding

sold for praise and cheers

gifted to uninterested or uninteresting

left to gather dust....

held tightly, torturously so
for  fear of it flying free

weighed, found wanting
yet alway needing more

when  the heart smiles
the whole body sings
when it cries,
we often look away
from it's sorrow.

we can be heartfelt
heartless, hard harted
soft of heart, heart sore
we can have a heart
overwhelmed, full of grief
overflowing with love

we need it to beat,
be strong, faithful, steady

all this: ascribed to a muscle,
inside a cage, inside a bag
working hard to keep us upright

look, at the state of it.......