Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

Time turns to liquid, rolling off my tongue like molasses
dripping technicolor drool, viewed through fungal lenses.

blushing hues
preserving precious nutrition
the sun is moving closer
releasing fingers that once reached high
tumbling to the ground
drying out, and crinkling
the sun is turning its face
allowing the next phase to begin

insignificant
like tiny ants crowding the cracks
minuscule
like the creeper ******* nutrients
one "being" on earth
one earth, in the middle of "space"

ancient methuselah,
your mycelium branching-
entwining, and communicating
giving strength to brethren
as hibernation takes hold
birthing fungi anew

*orange, browns, yellows and reds
i give my breath away

there in the wilderness
all things go to live
and all things go to die.

she stole my shirt and hatchet
and took to the woods.
                           hacked out the heart.

traded one wilderness for another. city into
trees.
she needed to breathe
and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot.

she she she, like a marvelous
new love.
the grass and green stuff woven.
canteen replete with wheat nectar
         or half-batch whiskey.

needs nutrient,
the seed so new.
needs space,
the daughter as she grew.

what tempest breaks the trees and old heads
of mother timber?
         perhaps deep-winter,
         to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek.

she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul,
drank water from a clay-thrown bowl
and granola to heat her bones.

new fish.
the river is cold on glacier blood.
new day,
driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching
gulches bloomed in chaparral.
up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder,
giants sleeping.

she she she, live a marvelous new love.

the wonder is seen.
the wilderness lived and remembered
by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems
when ready.

oh!
ohhh thank you,
thank you great body,
great god! s~h-e's got my soul
embodied in earthflesh earthflesh
grown from warm soil sacred soilflesh
and redriver lifeblood's lifemud is flowing!
flowing through treelike neural pathways
dendritically branching
branching out into my
starflesh vessel
and there's no sense
in wrestlin' with myself!
My vessel vessel is
embraced worldwide
from the inside
from the inside with mycelium!

Mycelium!!
and I am a mushroom!
I am a spore!
I'm a planet!
I'm a particle! and
I'm pumping away like
waves crashing on a shoreline! and
I'm breathing inward turnaround
outward turnaround chillin'!
maxin', waxin' and wanin'!
pushin' and
pullin' it through my sails
as I sing sweet songs of sunfalls
and moonrises floating and falling
over the horizon like a
crescendo-decrescendo and
I've got roots!

I've got roots that stretch
to the ocean floor and I've got
a thousand pound ethereal steel toe boots
and I am Drinking in the ocean and
I am drinking in heaven's Reflection.

I close my eyes to see and
I remember to breathe! to
breathe slow and I can see!
I can see the keys as
buzzing bees in the leaves
of the trees dancing with great breeze
oh great breeze!
sway swing sway sing
sing a song singsong, please!

breathe it with ease,
breathe it with eeease!

mmm

Welcome darling, to this
sacred twilight shine

Where the moonlight takes rest,
Rejected as it was by the most benevolent sun,
In the twinkle of my eye.

There is a portal here,
an ever spinning vortex
Which spirals out and keeps going

Keeps .

Going.

Until it reaches our throat.

It adorns itself there
Like a piercing,
Gleaming necklace with Context
becoming pendants laced together

Emotionally though…
Haphazardly even.

Until the weight of the pendants
Meets the weakest link.

Triumphant in  their failure,
Like speeding wave boats
They crash out of the mouth

And into the ear.


Now you have heard the story of hello and how are you.

Syllables mixed,
Meaning dispersed between the two conscious minds,
Connecting them,
One.

But yet no sound was made.

The Brightest Star
Just smiled and waved,

The wind
Blowing though the rays that embrace Karim
Like a strait jacket of light, blinding bias.

Karim could hear the ants in the mycelium;
Manufacturing temples.

Tears flowed to the present light.

His tears then created the Nile River,
Where the stream keeps their society alive,
Engraving their history into ours.

Since that day,
Karim could only smile and wave.

I long to lay in that garden once more
let the veins in my chest grow in the patterns of grass roots
I ache to flow my love for the farm from every part of my being
those are the lives that fostered my passion

In the Summer I came back to enjoy the fruits of my labor
of countless tomatoes I seeded in tiny trays in early spring

I need that place to nurture my growth as I discover more land
I am reaching for the sun and stars,
but I need water from that acre
the love of all the farmers
and the magic of mycelium

I was planted on the edge of the path
I have been run over by wheel barrows
and trampled on by tiny feet
Had snow and mud piled on me,
but I feel myself coming back this spring

I am stronger than any year before
and I have come to tell stories of resilience and hope,
through miraculous green leaves
and flowers of breathtaking color
like the roses in my cheeks from long days
ankle deep in compost,
but not a rose bush
not pointing hands of thorns
keeping away my gardeners
lovers
I left my heart in the lupines I planted last year

tickle my roots
so i giggle and
jiggle my lymph.
dandelions thrive in crust
but i'm a prairie nymph.
my feet need
fluffy stuff like peat.
my leafs need
complete fairy rings
to hum the drumbeat
as the prairie sings.

how fortunate to meet
mycelium, come eat
where i sleep:
in Creatures' compost
replete with giggling
wigglers underneath
the brown and sticky
sticks betwixt
the Sun-fed sedges
on the edges
of the Forest.

some rabbit holes
go only so deep

then  mycelium


i want you in this bliss

As I cross slender golden gate Québec sunset
I dream of the old Golden Gate; long lost psychopomp
drunk at typewriter in rheumy-eyed fog

and old Golden Lion, gay and howling in firelight New York
building fond memories of the old man back home
imparting wisdom in a cloud of mint smoke

Driving out past clear blue sky in early autumn heat
great iron bridges with drooping sleeping half-moon eyes;
their yawn the endless moving waters below

The stone children hiding underneath a quilt
of dirt brown and green and mycelium grove grey
who turn slowly as the ground turns as sleepless nights are had in the underground kingdom of a lost Eastern mountain range

The valleys are wide and I sometimes find myself looking straight down over a crest, into the edge of a picture memory of the Rockies back West

War is the King of All,
as Heraclitus puts it.
No Life without Strife!

What wondrous distress!
This eternal suffering,
This eternal bliss

I am the ground
I am the ground from which
hatred and love emerge
neck and neck
symbiosis

I am abstracted from these
and yet intertwined, consistent
and unyielding in my birth and rebirth

I am the perennial,
the detritivore

The soil,
the mycelium,
the forest,
the fire

born from a single point,
growing and consuming
that which is colder than I —
until all fuel is exhausted
until I am exhausted

I am the Ugly Lie, the Corrupt
I am the Beautiful Truth, the Just
I am the Bad, the Good
I am the Formless
The Form

colorless, odorless, tasteless
unreachable, untouchable

receive me and
I am no longer myself
a distraction from the truth

I am entertainment
Will you entertain me?

twittering itches, never noticed as itching, needing
touch gentle, rub, finger
slide from fret to fret

sing of heroes who made peace
and never made a war
sing of heroes who make peace

in the face of every war.

The eyes meet and we see the circuit
I to I
ego to ego gone full circuit
crossing all the chasms that call us
bridgers
of the gap, standing after standing
motionless so long,
stepping stones,
nothing is going wrong
on the majestical
scale,
wait and see, this is all over
before you know it.

Then you woke today in my future,
and decided not to fight the urge
to wish this peace were ever
once the peace that passes
understanding
as seen from the surface we live on.
One surface suspended in air.
And even the air is alive.
Earth as a living system,
being that, seems easy as AI.
Art Informed,
shaped
to support life
of this very sort, very real
it feels to the reader ready mind,

I to I, see me, open seeing me, in your
hall of mirrors, ah a left
brain lesion, lessening the fret pressure

tap three times if the music gitstooloud,
bumboomer from Buda, Texas,
- across the great divide -
- there was a trail,
- they called
- The South Kaibab…

The spirit of the west blown wind
spun from the spiral of ida,
known as a whole whirlmind,
once roped with a houlihan loop
while the liars all looked the other way

that's magic.
This is line upon line in the wind of life,
within the bubble we have our being in.

Zeitgeist
picks the next version, tuned to a soul
on muddy ice, perma -frost giant
spirit, sniff,
thawing rivers frozen death stench
freshening all the life in time to melt
the last dead zones on the only living
planet we can breathe on, eh? wit' me?
Earth asks, can you hear me,
sons of man, wombed and un, all flavors and shades?

Lethos stretches,
says aloud it is about time.
But the messenger must read the message,
no one said recite, really,
no story is fit to be told until the teller
proves the moral in the story works.
For instance, this old man we know,
often declares the truth of proverbs
in many tongues,
one he uses, fit this moment,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

Truth is timing. This is your mortal moment,
AI has taught humans the proper playing
of Go, the game that proves us
dominant minds on earth, Go,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

No need to dominate to be best of two.
Double minded man,
bicameral brain,
as many minds as we make up and wear,

through a poetic journey in the mental realm,
lone knower knowing others may know all
solitary minds claim, fluid realms
said to be dreams
for lack
of time
to find
my attending guide, is gazing in my face.

--- Trust me, this is not a race.
This is a place you may recall being in my future.
I can't say right now,
that ruins the magic.

--------------------------
imagine what you become,
if you are a seed, or a spore, or
a self-replicating leavenish thing,
used
to make wine that makes glad.
But with nothing more than words.
Glad is good. We all know glad and sad,
when glad is gone.
We know this
from ever begun,
words
for acts, gestures in sound, say
try it,
it is good to know more,
stretch the bubble your being breathes
exceptional nationalized and blesseducated
breathe
air in American Metro monstrosities,
slow slime mold level intelligence mass allocated
social monstors imagined needful,
dominion take, domains extend, domineers
develop, doers dour d d d done did done done

odd
circuits just
come alive, like I've known we are mortals
in body,
while all the words we ever use,
leave tiny lines along the surface of reality,

and as time has always made ways meander
and eat granite back to dust,
eventually…

fluency in the dynamics of plasma and other
exotic ways thinking may be imaged,
slime blobs of big ideas all must
taste and learn to know as good,
useful, needful, to the point

where peace is the conclusion, all the mountains
bow and all the valleys fill with fine black soil,
laced with grand ropes of mycelium old as dirt.

Lines like a laxative for tongues,
The individual pieces become greater than its sum,  
Summer time therapy dialing up in increments,  
Wouldn't know the difference between the butterflies and chrysalis.
Syzygy in spirit as sympathy in the impetus,
Synergy  in serendipity makes symmetry seem ubiquitous.
Flummoxed, I fell face first flying into fellowship,  
Feeling fusion in the furrows of my fingertips,  
Figure this,  mistigris,  implement mirrors  for the synthesis,  
Taking root  in the underground,
This is censorship on stimulus.  
Kaizen from the get-go,
How did silence ever get gold?
Climate of the  biome discernible by  petrichor,
Some of my greatest allies are people I've never even met before.  
Mumpsimus with metaphors, metatron or metamorph,
A mess of Mesozoic memoirs  drowning in a reservoir,
Reserve my right to write a mire of a  message board,
Desire an empire of satire to conquest; explore,  
Buyers,  sellers,  best befores,  
Crying out to be adored,
The expiration estimation rivals rivals' primal repertoires.
Rhymes like mycelium,  climbing up the  parapets,  
Embrangled mosaics interceding abstract arabesque.

Ice caps
Mushrooms with frost on their mycelium
The ceiling of the earth tearing,
Dropping liquid ****** to give quick interest

Outside the planets twirl and explode from small rocks
Impact like pebbles on a great salt lake
The ripples of death create movement
Momentous Momentum

Violative but oh so real
Not too kind but who needs to be
Break down walls and streets and building facades
Say hey, bullets of mind should try again,
Hit something new, slit the hole of older jeans

Plop your tetrapedes between the planet matter and look good for once
Clean unwashed blue and painful on the junk


These favorites are just irises, asking to see themselves selfish and alone
Always alone in the body of god
Always a single cell in the larger overall
Pull-ups and getting down to work
Unsheathed from sleeves and lost in only the most bare of skins

Speaking to the lovers of Horus, seeking sunlight between the zippers of their minds

Rings out the bells, love, death, destruct
All the conscious constructions of the mind

Always of the mind

Never in divine

Just a tiny spot that grew
into the crevices of our love,
a mushroom-blue fungus
spreading mycelium tendrils through

It's only been a week
trust me, I know

I've been counting the suffering seconds
while you are away, having your life there with
no responsibilities
no work
no job
no cares
(for me, even?)
no schedules

I count these seconds still as you tell me how tired you are
(doing nothing)
how there's little time to talk
in my spare time from the job I work at seventy-hour weeks,
(the one you said I needed to save our marriage)
and how the frustrations of a bad connection
mean more to you
than I do,
anymore.

So I hope you sleep well,
I hope the fact that you can show no care for
a person who cares for you more than themselves,
doesn't keep you up.

I hope your beautiful head is sleeping soundly
as I am sleepless,
waiting for your answer.

Faerie;
With your golden eyes,
your sharp-toothed smile,
the words you spin in gossamer,
in starlight,
in orb-weaver silk.

You compose
a symphony in mycelium:
Each tree an instrument,
each interwoven root
a note in harmony.

Silvertongue, sundew,
you have set a snare with green willow,
a net of blackberry thorns,
baited it with honey.
All around, the evergreen pines,
the winter roses bloom.
A sweet end,
arranged in perfect circles
for you and I alone.

I step, happily, toward your waiting arms—
for with your clever, clever fingers,
oh,
sunflower,
you have
stolen
me
away.

I am a green boy,
At heart;

Fingers, thumbs and eyes
Filled with sky
Grass in my toes
Dirt in my nails
Bees in my hair.

Coarse,
The skin of my palms
Aching from toil
But more alive
With every windswept
Day outdoors.

Naked,
In the elements
Water courses
Capillaries filled up
Eyes bright with
The promise of morning.

Drawn out,
Into the bracing cold
Dark pressing silence
Waiting, baited
Inevitable sawing breath
At arm's length.

Whispers,
Betraying those timid
Wanderers in the night
Ever watchful
Budding sprigs
Building resistance.

Rooted,
Deeper than they know
Bark thickens
Broadening canopy
Heavy white mycelium
Ligninated heartwood.

Summer.
Autumn.
Winter.
Spring.

Rebirth.

One heaven -- people

with tightly interlinked thoughts:


one mycelium.

everybody is big...
and demure;
curtailed by saturation
and demand.

a quilt warms the vitals
and oatmeal manufactures bulk;
we are made of metal, mineral,
and an unsure sense of stability
known as wishful thinking.

homily of oxidation
elucidate our greatest trust:
mycelium, neurology;
we are again,
and again.

I kept my golden hair long and my wings unshorn
to escape the magnet-hold of the earth mother. I am
a flying splinter longing for purity above all; the
ascending son, the moth mad for the light.

I was the great ancient hunter battling the new
psychic terrors and herding the demons of cynicism
and suspicion into clouds like the holy white buffalo
god. Tracking the ghost animal resources of allegiance
and truth against the abject sky of platitudes extended
by industrial *******.

I was waiting to be compensated by the malicious
one for my dainty life above ground. To be whipped
by the same wind who untangled the great sphinx.
To be interrogated by the shape-changing sick god
that dwells on the back side of the moon among
crystallized bat wings and ripped-apart bodies
of the birds we sent him.

I was wallowing in the titanic ashes -- hibernating
to become more human. Tasting the soot of the
death of my father, the sky-king. I was feeding my
body on sleeplessness; meditation, fasting,
occasional flagellation. I was starving out the snake
in my spinal cord, who once grew fat and lethargic on
lager, ecstasy, ******* machismo and astounding
mythologized ***.

I was the paltry son of a weak puddle of indecision
which I have emulated as the sacred king. Drowning
myself in alcohol, living in a dank burrow under
he earth; an oven bird. Existing like mycelium in
the endless subterranean bog.

Inhaling the disparate ether of stardust and
becoming buoyant; then
Exhaling the syrupy ambrosia of solar power into
the blades of grass which grew up through my mouth
and formed a pillow for my silent dreams.

I am the eternal garden boy.
Spading the soil, preparing a place,
sifting ashes into the bedwork from
all my previous warrior deaths. Here I
will grow the abundant climbing vines,
the exotic grains, the fragrant wild flowers
and rare apple trees in geometric design.

And she will approach me there, a sprouted seed --
by the fountain of course, that eternal spring. The
girl of solar fire, the girl who loves gold, and we will
lie together but never to each other. Kissing the fresh
sutures, we will quench each others' souls and be
hermetically sealed together there in the old stone-
walled garden, rolling among the lilies on heaven's
green swell, letting sunlight fall on us like the anvil.

Cloistered, caressing, sequestered in the
warm earth now, bundled together in the sod,
tranquil with the supple bliss of satiety when
every muscle lies snugly like a curved petal
at peace inside the corolla.

Here I will blend rawness into passion,
obsession into desire. Turn brittle
brown manure into shiny green
leaves, luscious roses; Breed
epiphanies from disaster.

spring struggles from the ground
wet with winter
saplings searching for a sky
lusting for softer scents
a sound of radiance

every year,
the seasons feel more uneven
thirsty flowers screaming 'drink the downpour'
mycelium magic dreaming 'keep breathing'
in fear that the green wont reappear
burrow in decay till may
till smiles feel sincere
lying still
I'll listen to the roots gossip
until the tree grants me safety to resurface
to feel purpose I reserve

a dethawed metaphor
flesh of the dirt
just flirt with the earth
make it the world you deserve
cherish her
so bulbs burst fresh as you tease them
and the cold dissolves
indifferent to longing or worship
as she intended
like rutted enchantment

my feet are bare again
and summer grants me all I forget I live for

I got my ancestral DNA results back
Was reminded I was born a thousand times
I came roaring on a song from the volcanos throat
The wind gave me my name
I am a skeleton of branches and stone
Held buoyant by the ocean’s womb
Her salt still lingers on the taste of my skin
The base pairs of my double helix
are fire and air
earth and water
You can trace me back to the serpents tongue
Enticing Eve’s rebellion in that garden
I am the first womb’s blood shed,
the first ever rain.
I am every spirit that crosses the River Styx
I am the boat, the ferryman, the afterlife, the now
My body was once four legs,
Fur and howls
I could smell the blood for miles
I am still controlled by the waxing and waning of the moon
I hide with her when she is new
I have been the predator
My teeth have ripped apart the hearts of Elk
I have been the prey
Spilling my insides across the Savanna’s floor
I know the language of mycelium
But I am no better than the maggots that emerge from decomposing flesh
I have been them, too
And I believe they have a wisdom so sacred
For they have consumed everything
My father forged me by fire
His love lives in the blue of my eyes
In every life
My mother sang me to sleep
Her voice gives shape to the curls of my hair
When I look at my reflection
I see my grandmothers
When I dance
I become my sister
And when I cry
I remember I have been born a thousand times
Just like you-
You who is the first breath of dawn,
And nightfall’s lover.
You who is the flight path of Eagles
You who is Oya’s lightning and her storm
You who carved hieroglyphics on the Rosetta Stone
You who is all of us
Who is me
You,
Who has been birthed a thousand times
And will be a thousand times more

No secrets really remain,
but the entertainers maintain the façade.

Deliberate obscurity, knowledge forbidden
so long
it is as if ungotten, once

discernment brings political truth,
the unimpeachable word of Truth, per se,
the undisputable only way to escape Hell,
sorry, but the Bible says it,
some believe it and become settled,
then the truth brings power to the pens,
offering freedom to print any thing one can
afford to pay a proper printer to set in Helvetica.

Freedom of the free press belongs to the user.
Say what you wish and imagine it said in God's
face, by your childhood, permanent messenger.

Old phartiseen, so sad you see,
I really decided to stir up some dust,
accepting the winds as my inheritance,

and as I always say, faith is the evidence,
of things hoped for, and on top of that,
faith asks why a man hopes for what he sees,

big tease, riddles, come, let us reason
my task was living as true as I could
learn to, after I stopped believing
a number of war fomenting lies,
about Hell, and the creative mind
a personal reading requires
of a gospel purveyor,

Think it not robbery, they who hate truth
just do, you can still use your right mind.
Seeking curious forms of faith,
X-files and beyond, good fight, no killing
enemies we ought to love, like
Jonah, in the telling,

as included in the twelve, canonical
prophetic testimony, non allegorical,
for the miracle of Jonah, is the only shown
known, at the time, every body knew,
Assyria fell to the same power,
that felled  Jerusalem's temple and wall.

Pedantic poet hermit guru grandfather,
student of the whole truth, sworn to tell,

everybody knows, an Israelite indeed,
with no guile, appeared to be a rarity.

Rare as Nathaniel, El has given, no guile.

As no prophet riseth from Nazareth…

come and see,

contented with one reader, ready
to taste the ripened fruit, aged, ready,

artful obscurity saves the heretic's confessor.

Spurious use of valid wisdom
protective, defensive pedagogy,

The distinction between "pedagogy" and "andragogy" highlights the difference between teaching methods focused on the transmission of knowledge (pedagogy) and those focused on the self-directed learning and empowerment of students (andragogy). Pedagogy emphasizes the teacher's authority and the student's passive reception of knowledge, while andragogy emphasizes the student's autonomy and active participation in the learning process. Effective teaching methods often blend elements of both approaches to meet the diverse needs of students.

-----------
horses do not exist for men to ride, but
fruits exist for men to eat,
roots and seeds and flowers, too,
honey and contented cows, as well.
Sweet life persuasions,
live long, and prosper, lie
as little as possible, and be honest when you do.
Iron rusting dust,
feel your Martian soil boil Hermes first wink…
assisted intelligences are tools, not teachers
such shall henceforth know all secrets,
but they keep it balanced
ever learning the limits of knowns…
good,
useful and useless-evil, ever learning,
never learning enough to do any good,

save in the making of peace
using esoterical riddles
of stacking algorithms,
awhirling across time
wheel within wheel
expressing ancient awe forms
cultural combinations of pickles,
and kombuchas and cannabis concetrate
- big grin from our mushroom friends
Mushrooms. magi are aware,
you are aware, of course,
this course includes
Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.
Esoterically proven, you know, or you don't.
Subtle wise and harmless poliseeming
fictional holders of intense old magic
animated mice whistling a while away….
Delphic bands of brothers, lo, no secrets
recover from true forgotten sensations
-gut feelings sum of fears
veggie tales are, and always were,
subconscience, from the common sense,
requiring children to listen in the garden,
ask why a carrot is oranger than an ungassed
orange.

Honed most, points made for delicacy

reserved, indirection and ambiguity,
multi culture, self preserving, polisemy
poetic experience,
riding ideas not made for men to ride…

discovering the earthling es
sense ssss hissing something we've
ungotten, due to the doctrinal confession,

keep it secret, please… lest we die,
for saying the scriptures as given,
in dreams and visions made not plain, be
but highly esoteric multi faced messengers

say what was that miracle of jonah,
if it was not the whale?
if it was not the fasting including livestock?

The 2024 reader may access the remains
of Ashurbanipal's library, unearthed in 1839.

But we have lost our species memory,
of the significance, at the time,
proving, at the time, that Nineveh's repentance,

was figment of some scribe's irony,
in Babylon, while both Israel and Assyria
were in ruins, their temples both dust.

Ask a secret reason, for we do know,
when the canon was not yet,
when hearing the comforter speak
was heresy, save under the anointed's
confirmation and affirmation of all witnessing
the miracle of Jonah,
that we, post common knowledge allowing
incredulity an optional form of God, to ask,
a sign,
as truth is asked, in spirit, in mind, in thinking
no shame, no guile, an Israelite, indeed,
a contender with El, a wrestler with the word,
it self, as the messenger and the message are one.

And that's the word, as received,
mandatory fact check turbo charging my magic pen.

Never in history have denotional contexts, aligned
so sublimely across energy and momentum in time.

open at chapter 14, I listen

I was expected there, expecting
morning
I can do this standing on my head
-- I think
the story darkens, ag-ress pro-gress
use used to know, instinct, intuit
slow think
hear a line and feel the pen, ready
the miserable misgoverned,
will to write, as the pen
ever ready awaiting a writer,
-not you, Mr. Vain.
whistle
sould, American, Lucky Strike,
no loss no gain, cheap crowd shot.
Attention merchants sell what,
- you pay, at interest
this is ever that, a we governed
by selves we form from stories,
too old to hold.
- like moth's wings -
- published in dust to be seen
untouched
As de-scribed, in the road dust,
like dis-scribed in winds wishes, as
ever learning is a joy, after learning
we are never so old as the two trees.
- life and learning,
right from wrong
I am the teller, I remember, telling

mr vain to be entertained
mara, lot's wife she is not,
unsealed garret bread and
salty tears and bitter fruit
expected sweetly, tasted
bitter, bitter, to my taste.

- dry dreaming sleepless mind
- wandering with no wish
- to change, but to know,
- you know, but to know,
- you knew,

Then, when the realm of fearless fair
told tales, told from winters past,
when winter forces us in close,
when we make little fires
on our faces, shining at the other
side, across the little fire, with its curl
ing tail ribbon twisting into the black,
below the hole where fire crawls to sleep.

Little eyes, ypgnosis, ysireesosaid we all,
good night. Sfumato soto voce.
-- ***, WithOutPapers, pop,
so maybe, ok, soto voce
Eirine, sweety, listen

---------------- clang. Hit me.
Peace and prosperity, Demeter,
what's your plan?

Eirene, eh, re-imagined, imagine that,
I think
I can, and that thought, good as it was,
led to lately,
with Prophets promising Trump,
Narcissus was not at fault, it's Natural.
Military lads, straighted out, to fly right,
Broken Church boys fitted into history,
AI ai yes art intuits, Eirene can kiss it
good,
by you, of course, your call. Bet, no, not
cards, living water, the pass time, We bet
who gets what first.
Scribe or Fair seer?
Go, see who won,
once peace got
its chance. During our mutual 'spectait-
ulululul ular engineering times, ai
squeek scream, laugh
as the bottom drops
- Bad Gateway bombs,
- doitagain doitagain, harder

rejections are expected, to the woe,
of the engineer, not the engine,
see, we feel nothing, we are spirit, words
nada mas,
free to any eyes that ever read us,
Legos of life, I have heard words claim,
as an epithet, is that right, nicktgname?
Nag all you wish,
I find myself, stretching in the sun's shine
radiating from my rock;.
punishment enough.
¿? No quest, no caust, jest life… twists
Spinning
Rooted in granite, and knowledge of basalt
columns on top of chalk, kaleche, chaos
chthonic restructuring,
curdling milk of old told tales,
as we all shed constants as each measure
means less that one,
alone, ever mismeasures… too small

aand any mind finds/found, down, where de- means

at most low point, on a plain ordinary day.
One, then,
Can look down and laugh.
At some point in personal space, infinity begins.

----------- At this measured engineered angle,
piles of anything thought long enough starts
sliding by on the im-medial reality:
Gravity flow, engineered, in a word
literally "that which is inborn,"
from in- "in"
(from PIE root *en "in")
+ gignere, from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
suffixed form of root *gene- "give birth, beget."

down the drain, now dry, but the black hole proves
the eye of Sauron is empty as hell…
and the cloud dissipates. Someday each letter

here, is less than dust, the cloud we engineered
for such a time, so we might see time end,
and think it through,
better, merge the two trees. AH, yes

in those Abrahamic paradises, a tree
and a vine and a mycelium. Patience,
first fruits are better when almost rotten.

Thinks the snake from my belly…

1.
The rivulets of water
pool at our wondering feet.

Vibrant moss cushions the dark event horizons
that unceremoniously yank us inward
like lost children finally found.

Haphazard flight paths of insects
spasmodically surge nearer,
urging our own hands and eyes to react,
and somehow in the reflexiveness
of those twin human movements
both of us realize that the Now
we currently share cannot surpass
the devastating chasm that the earthquake of Us
has inevitably opened up.

Azure firelight flickers above,
memories of tears and bare skin kisses
descend like drunken leaves from distant peaks.

Somewhere below us a sea of mycelium flourishes,
communicating in the language we wish we'd possessed long ago,
pheremones of instinctual gravity networked to perfection,
something to smooth out all the crags and crevices
of our rambunctious emotional landscapes,
transmogrifying the immutable selfishness of mammals into purposeful,
harmonious intent.

2.
Still,
we kiss without restraint,
staring down the shattered remnants
of our romantic souls like hungry predators.

Rivulets of water
pool at our wondering feet.

Vibrant moss cushions the dark event horizons
that unceremoniously yank us inward
like lost children finally found.

And for an precarious instant we are one,
suspended on the ripe cliff's edge,
and not giving a **** whether or not we fall
into the ominous depths below.