The old days, the old ways, those are in the winds of been;
with all the worries
worth worrying lost with the reasons why

today was to have been
impossible.

Self-evident, right, the prophets were right and
the liars
are with us, as sure as the poor.

Today, we live and die, planning to do it again,
after a nap, making clear

this peace past understanding, so you can see
through it to the

glimpse of a happiness you know, it's right, no evil
dripping acidic
lies
into hopes, we held locked in catechismical caves.

So long ago. The old days were not good.
Only the stories with happy ever after this
----

You see it done, old son, you take the role.
No missed takes, no second guess,
single-mind me, my self, I say may the game begin

en joy, they say, as if verbishment en into en trance
muted
nothing to this, in our own life's history,
verified, examined and, be hold,

not found wanting anything. Off the scale,
onto the state or stage of becoming,

not there, not here, be
coming
soon, always soon, soon, now

big bang, right. be

hell, you lie, and you know it, but why?
Liars prosper.
That's the key, if you give a buck. I'm a pro,

you don't get where reality is this slippery and
threatening,
guided by me, y'follow? you don't get here, and blame me.

Blame me, shame me, oughta take rope,
'n' hang me.

What if, still, in effect. Reality at gut level, synaptic axion dents, right,
waves of peristalsis moving shichewswallowed,

minus that action,
you are dead,

but your biome, the raw info, ideas that moved you, through the years,
we adapt, we modify our center of gravity,

we ellipsilate our sphere of influence into

fratical fractal real ification practices prospering in 2019.

Nonshite. Dear reader, we must pause, please, hold this thought...

The cultivator must be first, no lie. Seedtime gap harvest. Eat me.

sign on the bottle,
it was a clue, don't you want somebody to love?
You better,
find somebody to love, oh yeah, that left a mark. Funny,

It's okeh to smile, I said to Imogene Coca.
She stared into my eye, no Bette Davis eye,

Imogene Coca eye, no smile, no word mime meme bent
to a pixelation
degree, you pretend to see, AI can see the thread
you trust the legend,

scarlet thread or golden?
Which do we cut?

She is silent

we speak with a face of resolute absurdity
spit bullets of futile calumny
  hushed in silence bereft of theater
alluringly fresh when a newness is nearer

a rash of a tumbled tinkered mind
just having left her square body behind
  a **** and a pat, lips pursed no longer painted
ignored by the night so readily tainted

but you ask how can that be for you, for me
it was meant to surrender like an ebb tide sea
surely adrift her romp will soon flush back
like a swan song riddle or gold filled sack

Imogene, Rita, Ellen or Jane
bouncy full bloomed bosoms, in a ***** rain
more sorrows and spindles and silky skin
less time to make sturdy the morning's din

songs and sweet nectars to drink a splash
humming moans and heaving sash
eyes closed filled with a roaring constellation
memories ablaze filled with deep elation

what face we just talked about here writ
in previous verse not subject to theory or wit
just a mind's plainness as usual as can be
a moment casual as tweedily dah and tweedily dee

Tall tales, memories inerradicated,
other worlds
other ways
other times, no other truth, all possible things are;
all impossible things never were,
no matter

all reroes religate the religious use of truth, in
impossible situations,

the truth frees, but this is the beginning, is it not?
This is the first time your mind found a way
into a common legend
of times when all minds spoke one language,

languages are difficult to perfect but first need known
is patience,
fear, known sooner than patience, is wise-being,
the result of the author seeing how a lie
could get out of hand and imagine an
impossible thing for too long a time.

Madness is the first word I learned for this state.
Imogene, who smote her hubby with a hammer,

ha,ha, ha. that real already was written in another
lie I lived through to now.

We sold them, they bought us. We owe nothing.
We earned our keep, and may I say,
with professorial non-chalance, this is the price one pays

when the script calls for attention,
you were about to mention the state we abide in, when
in default mode
mind wandering, not at all mindlessly, very mindifly, I

flee the pun
ish ment no harm, tis the charm of that wheezing old chump,
d'ja tell'em one, did they

survive. It seems most don't. Most of youse used to gititon
gititup gitiover on the other side,

flip the coin
time and chance, one day up, one day down, depends
on do darkness count as day or not

time being related to states of stop,
stop states, as
sleep states, to the fractal degree of hypernation of
indignation, kanyedigit, digial assistence
national notions

did you jump in
we be we be we be
whoa, selah,
balancing factor, at your service.
Where we wish we was...

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm whose long-gone limbs

I remember as if they were my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls and the pass -it -on,
from perking up and pipe down.

I'm from He restoreth my soul with cotton ball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn, and strong coffee.

From the finger, my grandfather lost to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box spilling old pictures.
a sift of lost faces to drift beneath my dreams.

I am from those moments -- snapped before I budded -- leaf-fall from the family tree.