who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
thought themselves of mythology ?
processed death into the dying **** ?
blunt   blackened hope
           buttering up what god ?
                                   what mischief maker ?
: Loki the crow with his promethean nose ?

covering his crooked actions
                          the defiling of a life
  murderer
  a coward of failed coupling
congress    a night down the pub
    the gender polar pair collided
            sottish upon their union
genitals bragging through urgent gaps in clothing
but that urgency deflated
it muttered away
he felt baited
and
  humiliated    
             he committed to ******

crude amateur throttling
  a ***** sogged brick  
an indiscreet botch up
    and a stolen wheelbarrow  
        to ferry her away

'The Mourning Tree'
           despondently sifts for nourishment
its gummy combs of branches
  sashing particles  from the night solution
the tree ; a cavity
too verrucose and fleshy to whittle the winds
                                               or fife a tune
a rubbery craggle     foreign against the landscape
should   rather   make out its' habits
                  off the floor of a deep sea trench

roughing in the corpse
head first   down the gullet thirstily
skirts up and claustro
between spread limbs
to ***** puckle in the hollow tree
evicting the bird of Minerva
      ‘whoing’ into the charged sky
  blooded over
             the night blackens further
               brooding on the event

who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
married themselves to a mythology ?
force fed life   engorged within deathly seed ?
upended crime     in lieu of a sacrifice
           he offered a glass of woman
               to oder the night
he strummed teasing fingers
      raked them humming
         through the heady resistance of the air
electric creeping warmth   over the skin
                        erecting the hairs
   museum silence
   an arena    as fraught equal    between magnets
       clouds cut the moon
      moon cut the eye
    sinful kiting to mend a link
ramblings kinked
he makes sparking incantations to the gods

one scatting madman
one corpse woman


that same bled night
where the furrowed fields
            meets natures disarray
children approach this woodland border             
children with empty baked bean tins
      that they joined with lengths of string
trying to reach out their ears
    extend their timid range
       to sprites, nymphs, pucks or faeries
an older kid strikes up a cigarette
one of the younger ones squats to ***
         and be mocked

one brave girl of ten years
  runs a tin and the line into the woods  
it jerks taunt after about thirty paces
she wedges it in a tree fork and runs back
the children crowd the receiver tin
spooking themselves
eavesdropping   
        upon the hollow wisdom of small gods
            that mask their shame in the dark

****** Factor

old Ralphy McCalister they all called him Chubs
he was a one of kind ****** ball even rooted for the Cubs
he thought he was slick yes he thought he was cool
only thing wrong was most thought he was a tool

greasy long black hair combed high on his head
various sized zits on his face all puffy and red
he still wore high heeled boots to make him seem tall
always trying to impress saying I have to take this call

when everyone knew it was most likely his mom
he'd wink at you and say loudly hey hi there Tom
who was supposed to be some famous music man
working on a record deal for Chubs and Steely Dan

it's funny cause he couldn't play, dance or sing
his best known talent was drooling over some young thing
with his black leather jacket and skin tight jeans
only tune he could play was after eating baked beans

he wore phony gold bracelets and chains round his neck
spent time in the pokey for kiting a check
always looking for an angle to scam off a buck
his made-up stories could fill a large truck

yes on the sleeze meter he scored a staggering plus
there goes another of his pimples about to ooze ****
you know he might have had a chance at being an actor
one thing for sure was he had that special sleeze factor

Gomer LePoet...

the idea that this is as

the webs towing spiders in the winds, winding
listfully
on circuits long ago distorted with mountains

and canyons,
effecting whorls and currents forcing a way around a mountain
for the mists that once watered the flatter feeling
vessel we were alive upon, in books

spaceship earth one. I in roman tongue,

but nothing lasts forever,
everything else changes,

constantly,

be still.
be

---
realms with in reasons,

uni-verse-ity-ifity agregaton setting liquified stone,
some

how (wise) wegsheid sehen Sie veer left

OOPs loops, left from when this was a decide point.

FYI, it was my idea to go through the wall,

I was the one who went through,
not you,

I came out the front door, not you,

but you didn't run, you were my friend,

in this projection of a decider point, we
passed

adaptively, as if augmented with a

allyes promise, ala all ye, all ye, outs in free... message from base

aye, I A-ok a intuitive influencee feeling tugging,

not pushing, gentle pull, slow
and steady

spider woman, grace for grace. let flow this thread
in ever

let it tangle with the wind,
we hold in our fists,

and the thief looses owning his good for use, the joker lifts off,

with a laugh, doing good,
like medicine,
loosed when one hand claps,

without the other knowing,
science-wise.

you are in the middle of things,
insisting importance – you would feel
shivering in the distant blue
of another girdled spark and there,
in the not-so-distant sky,
I reach for damp perimeters

and have your face conclusive
with whiteness, sure of its glare,
  crossing the frangipani outside
  my home; silence leapt borders
and now an incident. uninterrupted.
resolute. absolved.

although so suddenly moving away
kiting around and perhaps death
will deal its part when love’s done
with its tedious labor – and it will all be

moments of bliss, two people renaming
necessary haunts, laughing
  in the dense air, keeping an ear for
the spring of yourself.

Dark, lonely road it was, drifting;
Wondering about the life I could've had, worrying.
Nothing matters now when nobody cares, but
Nothing in my life was scarce, and who cares.

Dark as the night and mighty as a knight, my life,
Weary it was as I lost my sight, my soul,
Wavered as I am no good at kiting, my love, but
Nothing in my life was scarce, and who cares.

Dreadful it was to hear about the backstabbers, but
Nothing matters now when I've lost the people I care,
Never be the same again, all they do is just stare, but
Nothing in my life was scarce, and who cares.

Proof, tongues spark fires.
As I burn in indignant
rage of uselessness.

But if I could I would make all houses fireproof.

Fireproof,
my house could be buried.
It would be fire proof, but I can not pay to do the job.

I can imagine it done.
I can imagine living in a mound I paid to have made,
I can imagine finding funding in a lottery ticket that blows by.

In my chthonic dwelling place,
I might imagine forging peace from scorn,
I might imagine shaping forms for horns and bells,
I might imagine making hate bow before darkening my door.

Fireproof,
in California, in 2020,
in the September like none can remember. listen:

Some say san'ana win's be blown in spite,
of all them prayers and they prayers,

Peacemaker sorts, say, not t'night.
Wounded warriors wisht redemption, gimme one mo' shot,
I got t'tell, t'*** outa hell. f'free, {humming birds were singing}

yeah, free, for the troof.
seekt 'n' found,
settled down, watch 2020 vision in 1963 mind,
at the Stardust Drive-In, on Route 66.

Kids, I cannot lie, I was a liar by trade and inclination,
so I do know how, and why, liars prosper.

I lack the knack.

I suspect Plato had this problem.
Nobody will believe me if I say I know this, but
IF
I were to say Socrates says he thinks this
or that,
I could talk to myself for hours, if I were Socrates
and Plato…
I could carry on trial-tri-tryag'in-a-logs,
make a joining thing
attack a subconning science, see a mental canker worm,

at the core,
lusting for more. And swallow.
--
Try the brandy, we perfected the tekhne, in 1263,
the very essence of a satisfied mind,
we captured in patient perfection.

Faster fasting, 2020, see, you ask me, I say, go slow --

look around,
some things happening here, there, where my words
are where you are,

and that's
kinda kool.
We come up to the Kool taste, all
gnostalgic gnshit.

Why so serious, seriously, if Schiller says, to this day,
our kind are at our peak in states of whole
heart and mind harmonized play.

Nobody blows my horn, see,
I move the needles, shhh
sing a song sung in pines,

say, sighing, I know, softer, I know
softer, still, I know

I heard
Little Boy Blue, come
blow your horn… yeah, pretty sure…

The brandy, right. I knew some things changed.

Fireproofing plan, began to take shape
and was buried in
details,

yes,{yes, yes} the rub, the scratch on the glass,
rough diamonds
find that act
vibratorily
such a rush, ping, the sing, ting - tones spiders feel,
while kiting over grand granite domes
protruding from Baja to Reno, and beyond.
--
A wise man built his house on this rock,
and I bought it, on credit, by God,
I declare I am no man's slave,
I owe no man, but to be a true and noble friend at all times.

Naturally, of course, in the flow of all things,
as AI has guessed it might look
from a distance, we see

we are a very tiny bit
of everything at once.

What I think I am matters, just exactly that much.

-- and on earth, in reality,
I thank God Almighty
and the best of luck, for firefighter types of minds and bodies.

Silly, silly me. Mind of my own,
swimmingly setting bubbles of simile loose
in your
mind, in factors felt as real as any thought you thought.

as real as any thought you thought, this
particular, alien idea,
emerging, critique click cliché YES, all the mises, pro
liberality, certain and absolute solutions to UV salves

"Sunshine, came softly…"
The alienated minds of the children purchase in 1948,
was anticipated, seen as a future path,
to negotiate, eh, take the bold leap
over the briars, or dare
to follow the hounds,
and crawl into the chapparal so similar to home.

¿Hoy, Compa, te acuerdas… to you do you recall…

muse, imp, urge, will to know, while knowing nothing,

no good no ill, only wonder, and then not wonder if, but what?

Are you- with or con- knowledge or science, not of, or…
loving me for being alien,
nothing near real,

a familiar feeling, with no words clinging
in hope of some idle thoughts you hung out to dry,
as washed grocery bags, set to trap answers
blown by winds named now for saints,
then for powers, real as any, these
winds
returning on circuits predicted by AI.

Santa Anna warning,  strange weather all the elders say,
in the past,
these winds were earlier, by a moon,
and they often followed dry storms of lightning and thunder
fanning any smoking flax to vibrant flame,

claim the promise, Yes, all
the promises given the endurer to the end,

the only hero you personally know, inside out, is you.
Should you play a standard trope,
or seek the character's principle

shape, in formed from thought, Toth, is said to have thought

Cathar, hide, and watch, we may ask Google, we need not own
the knowing, we need not hide the hoarded secrets,
required lessons, treasured knacks and tricks for pulling wire

fine as any spider's silk, listening in every palace, believe me,
we lace the planet in silken sensing threads, singing windsongs

silly old tuners, hear for practice, the lightest test touch
just
there at the base of the thought, fiddlesticks, catgut crossing
spider kites
eyes tight to the squint, discerning gleams
seen
there, then.
You still see that morning meadow with gold in its mouth,
kiting spider trails, wet with dew, we, atop the old stile,
standing, stone still, staring at raw beauty
saying, try to remember…

We went kiting today!
The wind was blowing through me
The kite was catching wind
The way I catch my breath with a sigh
He was swirling and tumbling up high and dangerously low
While I was trying to keep it high
The way someone tries to keep its head above water
Without knowing how to swim
Let’s kite between the green of the grass and the blue of the sky
Dreams in the soul and hopes up high