The sun is drowning in the horizon
Flailing its brittle breaking rays
The Oakridge girls sweat in the factory
Sisters of Mercy in a hospital 10,000 miles away

Chasing down a wailing ambulance
Inside, a patient who swears he's still alive
His eyes are crying milk white protein
The Priest and Doctor insist to him he die

And I've become so lonesome
Now that the Oakridge girls are gone
The dusk is blood red in the East
But a celebration is started with the dawn

Nothing, no nothing ever changes
Quick and clean if you are blind
Charlene will turn your heart to stone
But the Oakridge girls are always kind

The house was a familiar sight, wood floors dingy and worn, paint chipped and peeling from the walls, couches stained and torn. We had met here almost a year ago, between sweat soaked bodies and empty bottles, faces brimming with laughter. But now we were drifting away. You told me of a place on the western coast of Oregon where the land juts out in cliffs before the ocean and how you dreamed of flying from those cliffs one day. “Let’s get lost,” you said to me, through a haze of smoke and *****, as you lifted your drink to your lips. You had joked about running away before, but this time was different, this time you had nothing left to lose.
          The next morning we woke with the sun and packed the car. Blankets, clothes, and the stuffed dog you’d slept nearly every night with since you were six. You had named him Icarus the day your father left, and you threw him deep into the woods, thinking if you didn’t deserve a father, neither did he. He stayed there for two weeks buried from the rain, in mud and leaves. When you finally could take the loneliness no longer you went out to find him. It took you an hour and a half and when you finally held him you vowed to never leave his side again.
          We set out from the Deschutes Valley and I drove towards Tillamook as you slept beside me in the passenger seat wrapped up tight in the Serape you found in the attic the day you moved away. It was musty and worn but it smelled like home. The sun shone warm through the windshield and refracted in spectrums through the chips and cracks. The trees were getting their summer foliage, dark brown limbs hidden now by bursts of green. I turned on the cruise control and placed my hand on your head as you slept. The forest flew by around us, its trees a permeable membrane to the world contained within. As you rested I couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts were being born inside your dreams.
          For four hours we flew, treading concrete, in and out of lanes, between cars and trailers, avoiding the animals making their way west. The smell of exhaust poured in through the open windows and mixed with cigarette smoke. The drone of engines gave way to the rushing of wind and four lanes became two. We were surrounded by fields of rock and the road was carved into the jagged earth. Here cement finally turned to dirt and I could see the cliffs you had told me of falling into the sea.
          The next day we found the beach and lost ourselves there between the waves and the crisp ocean breeze. Memories of a past life scattered like glass along the shore. The birds flew overhead and played games with us; one diving in close, turning at the last second to avoid the collision, then soaring high back around to see if the others dared to follow. We walked the border of sea and earth, ankle deep in saltwater and sand, and I held your hand as you confided in me every inch of you.
          You told me what it was like for you growing up, how your father had left, and how your mother worked herself past breaking to provide for you and your brother. Your father was a hardened man. He had worked in steel mills his entire life and had met your mother one spring on vacation in Oakridge. They were married the following fall and one year later you and your brother were born. You told me that he took to drinking and was let go from his job at the mill, and that he turned with violence to your mother when he couldn’t find work. He walked out on your family the day before your seventh birthday, got in his truck and never looked back. Five months later he turned up dead, he had passed out drunk at the wheel and crashed it head first into the old oak tree at the tail end of town.
          That night we slept in the sand and grass in the lee of a dune reaching its hands toward heaven. It cradled us as I cradled you in my arms. I drifted off to the sound of eternity in my head, to the vast planes of emptiness that come just before sleep. That night I dreamt for the first time in weeks.

         I was the captain of a sinking ship. I was standing at the helm, sails full, watching my crew slowly drown, and every time you would turn away from me in the night, another wave would come and break over the bow. One by one my men drowned and I watched as the waves came to take my vessel under. Yet there I stood, steadfast at the wheel, unmoved by the power of the sea, awaiting my turn to be engulfed by the endless green.

          When at last I woke you were gone, off walking where the sky meets the land, and I went out in search of you. When I found you there sitting amidst a mess of driftwood, you were distant, changed, it was almost as if you were someone else entirely. The night had taken a part of you and replaced it with a longing that I had never seen in you before. You told me you had dreamt last night of the place where you grew up.

         "I was there with my mother and my brother, running out to feed the cows, our dogs in tow. I looked up, distracted, and the sky glowed red like the fires of Hell. I walked the rest of the way to the barn and watched as the horses went mad, their blood boiling, racing through the pasture and sprinting headlong through the fence. My father stood off in the distance covered in blood, chopping wood and stacking it on the woodpile. The trees were set ablaze and my entire world began to burn."

          I looked you in the eyes and I could see the smoke lingering still. You sat there for hours in a state of suspended animation, staring blindly into the deep green ocean. I sat by your side the entire time and watched the tide creep closer and closer, as if it were reaching out to drag you into its longing depths. I watched ships sail by on the horizon destined for far off ports you once dreamed of seeing. And there you were, lost in the mazes of your mind, haunted, tortured by the visions you had seen.

                                                                ­                     *

          I sit here years later in the house where we first met. I have repainted, swept and cleaned these floors, mended the furniture. It is no longer squalid and unkempt, but the faces that come and go are the same. There are still bottles shared on occasion and the laughter has not faded, but something in you has. A piece of you died that day at the beach, and you buried it there in the sand between the tides. To this day you will not speak of what happened there and I do not blame you. There are some things we must keep locked deep within ourselves.

Vu. { as long as any story's told wrong}

- suffer not a novice to teach

No bet. Nothing wagered, no pledge to be paid,
no bet was made between the unspeakable name,

core processing access id-entity… we'll call Truth.
And time, if there were a wager, Truth be against Time.

- thus we develop a worth for attention.

The way life works super resiliently, bouncing back
after starry chaos leaves a constant possibility
for truths beyond our scale of instant relativity
to manifest as seems with none the wiser,

the sun could flick us from existance, and be
acting as naturally as all such suns act
after a while, maybe

seven minutes ago.
---
listening to me bellyache and moan,
woe is me I am good for nothing.

Hmmm. I could just die, but then, there
would be just cause to believe me selfish,
and selfish is something I try not to be, in fact.

Information flow, twists awry through held truths,
never taken apart to reset the spring.

Nietsche was wrong about a lot of things.
Knowing he had a voice he could
convince himself was otherwise,
he had a real raw idea of God.
That's good.
Not useless, mostly used up. Flame.

That's what the real old *** in me said.
Fretting naught,
letting go all wishery wasery,
growing old effortlessly,
be causing, as wishes are supposed,
sup-post,
same as prayers properly aimed, to
be collected to be
be answered, as information related
to pain in the brain or heart, or core
mental effort processing part, which
detects and destroys the infecting barb.
Just in time.
Release relief, unbelievable lies,
pile into icy dams, late spring
in truth
past all thorny issues,
life is not intentionally difficult,
ants - the super colony kind
run vast ecology balancing systems,
on auto pilot, pure intuitive duty drives.
On a global scale, spreading without war.

We can see we can be better rich than poor.
We can see we live on a wet ball spun
along a spiral in a spiral in a spiral, and so, on
and on and on, looping the grand loop, a little
farther along than last time,

our eyes have seen the glory, our children
can imagine thought speed, information passing

as time carries matters to gravitationally bound
points past which nothing is ever the same,

because you, cause me, to cause you to imagine
we share a plane conscious level,
as we stare across the heavens from JWST,

just adjusting reasonable focus, is it asking
too much? Asking to effect the healing
with truth that cannot be denied, and be truth
indeed…

Whatsoever, whensover, so today is fine,

infinitely fine, as a whole time bit, with us in it.

Who arranged the world's laws of nations,
?
not men in my general class, retired disabled
boys used in immoral warfare, and paid glory

and allowed to march in war winner parades,
even though, Wounded Knee and My Lai,

fester under America's Exceptional Blessing.

Agricultural superfluity, aided by machines,
and the modern incarnation of king control,
usurious
war debt, cost of plunder,
always need latest enemy detection tech.
- Confidential is above us all down here.

Who you gonna call to collect on reneged
deals, see the big picture, be visionary,
wars are lost for want of a nail, a nail
that woulda been seen missing, if the smith's
bills had been paid in time for precharge inspection.

Who allows evil to prosper,
who prospers from peace never made?

imagine you're the powerful and magnificent
leader of North Korea, or a Metro-mega Church.

You quote Lincoln, and agree with the great
promoters of idle time boredom prevention,
knowing you can fool some of the people,
all of the time. And some of the people
a predictable percentage of the time,

and all the people, after a while.  

Oakridge radiant Gospel,
"you listen too long
  you do eventually die."

- and thus it came to pass
- none found fusion, pfft.
Deep mindtimespace silence

Nonsense to any, therapy to me,
the effectual fervent prayer,

which is really
closer to need announcing, auto
awareness, missing pieces, up
ethos more or
pathos, up path of logos,
as winds winding times
recurrency circuits
up right
is not.
Down is not. Here is midway,
midterm… middle distance
**** sapien augmentedus
in the net spread
in the sight of radio beacons.
submicrowave accuracy,
acutron concept of counting
seconds worth of your attention

Practically stretched
past tensile strand strength

stretching to a C-note,
harmonica

calling all my musing friends,
come hang with me,
in my tree.

In the forest of humanity,
the ant intuitive interconnecting -umph
-- last stack, let patience prove possession --
---- Pa-airing Suckacessfull…
Yeah, blue tooth vestibular augments.
-- I can hear birds now.
Who is on war's side, if this were after
I made my case and closed it,
this is the future when we have
global access to once secret libraries.
5g- ****… radio directly individuated,
as once first accounts were coded, so
now, we are our comm device's user,
we filter using truths we used
and proved just so, we lived

asking truth to show itself in ways
a mortal who labored fifty years,
could be led to expect, jubilee,
boom,
I am free, and I am not uncomfortable,
U may read my mind and find news,
formed from used theories untwisted,

and stretched to the extent of one man's
heart fire, expanded with knowledge,
edified with activated agape, lief be,

take a second, what's such a bit of being
left alone, at second glance, become,

some kinda curious thing, clap trap.

****, all wishery is yours, it's time again,

to review the prayer/wish fullfillment section.

Did you, dear, oh, dear, what, what makes
dear the lessons life teaches for your attention,

no price, a quote, a song
"Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you without money,
come, buy, and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost!"

Isaiah 55, thriving on hope deferred,

refer again to the references,

decide yourself if you believe James I of England
was at any point a person you could work for?

My task is not to teach, unless my life proves
worth my continuing continuance, thinking

plinking, *** shots, clang… in the olden days,

when a family could live by a prentice knack,  
for taking things  apart, to play new roles,

as whole days that may be shared with wary
few, readers readied by experience, to become

as ware, soft, observant, paying eyeservice,
alert for entertaining clap traps when we all laugh.

Okeh, in a dark bijou-kiva, place where aspirations
are presented to the gathered together
to be entertained, de-brained, turned off, and

let be so, the picture show, as it were,
in the so esoterical initial induction, holiness exposed.

It is all in what you did not know, that makes
what you know now, worth living
through.

Yep. Fishing for a whole reality blessing
as living water
does occur to us as time,
we live in the flow, but we row,

because war rules the world we were born in,
and all the churches of messages etched in spirit,
written in light, of course, as on the silvered screen,
live to preach divine rights as old as lobsters's
stacking urges…
tapping scratching

And fire and memories paradiddling
cloudy smoky misty
shapes and shades noise uselessness knowing inspiring
zingers written on the door post, for good luck.

I read a coloring book, once, at a mall, in La Jolla.
"Grandma keeps a Kosher Kitchen" had a scene
to color yourself into, as a curious child noticing,
the little thing Grandma touched as she came in
from the garden of herbs and flowers for bees,

"what is that for?"
In the uncolored coloring book, it was so nonchalant,
"Good luck."
Grandma's grasp the lucid concept.
- food you know not of, love… luck
Thanks given. Praised be.

Long stories, should only be told as true,
if you, personally… lived to tell it, with no sugar on it.

Bitte, Schön. And so it goes. Kosher us, unclean other.

And what am I? Wild child left between the pillar
and the post of an aspiring great man, whose hopes

were dashed, when he crossed a line, in other peoples
ways of sealing soul stealing redemption agreements,

with a shotgun one potential solution…

by the grace of good luck from any source such
luck appears to have kept me breathing, aimlessly

as I imagine a spirit might decide, in truth, one breath
let go , allows a sense to follow, as glowing cardboard ash,
as the teller zones across old causes fought for and won,

which winning needs another singing, which cheek
this time? Which last laugh is led upto, now,

as I acknowledge the precious readers who form
the recognostic think thank thing,
deja deja

Had you known, who knows,
according to current time manipulation dramas,
how to make
a device used for aiming a public,
any size…
propagating the faith in-- that character,
drama shapes our social beings, you know,
you know all you know, and the
who are you, to all of you, the devil is real,
Lucifer proves it,
{Ai aight check it} Yah,
gotta match
07%
on YouTube, and who are you reading? random
acts of kindness
deflecting
conflicting kinds of cultural informic acid…
ascend
ants in the family tree?
how old are your mitochondria?

How would an egg tell a tale of parasitic invasion,
that resulted in reality,
as we seem to think this is, reading contrasting
edges of bits enstatiated, dark and light,
- Louise had a piebald poodle named Bit. -btw
Black and white, toy model, noisy
but comforting after the shock therapy in '63
Some
Singer Sewing Stories
from the TVA dam-good reasons.
- leaked into Oakridge,
- you'v been listening,
- to the father of lies…

If you listen too long, eventually you die.
Right. Safe bet.
Where did the you become, this
result of all you knew?
As we see you be,
Informed you, h-ex-ept-t'be-yewas
misinformed,
-cept that, snotspelt gnostic, digitized
info such as this
disinforms that,
we all lie, some times, in error of who
sees what when and in what order
fortuitous use of anointed words,
unspeakable,
we talk that here,
we know all the gnostic snot, muse-like, we
'hold the world on the back of that top turtle.
Slippery,
spelled wrong or right, or improper in text,
of this crystal interconnectifing  iferywas
effectual effing fluid lattice windowed
digertai illuminahtai wit,
pitching infinity beyond
ort clouds of human intentions
blown
to smithereens, those we
sparks,
as the hammer whams the blade, pulled from
the forge, whamms
sizzle set the temper
in this clay, stick the hot blade init,
set - a frame for clay, such as Romans wrote on,
set a base, see, the clay frame,
fits the blade, hilt to tip, but the hiltman
has yet to form the hilt and handle,
and the turban knot
that ties it all, last piece,
the pommel, perhaps this one is
a pomegranate shape, for the legend sake,
let's say…
-- once you have a handle on the knack,
you pull this blade from the stone, the clay, unbaked
becomes, in time, any way, stone;
some day, it shines!
the legend of these blades,
the never edged blades,
set in fine shining clay, true jewler rouge,

one day the hammer that made the blade,
strikes the clay, no
not that way,

some day, a knight called a saint,
shall come in humble submission to the mission in
heirical position, authorized with gold,
to swing a blade, anointed,
called of Peter's Holy See,
don't look
let him try to pull it from the stone,
--------- and the whole crumbled in mythery
No, it was art at work intuiting hear ears
in silence, nada humm
- you sneezed, bless you
and this is the dust

-we were doing inner being never been a hero
therapy,
not all kids have the disney channel, thus
this is not etched in the very characters
you imitate as easily as I
do Simon,
the pi monadic,
scatterbrained whimsy seamer,
seaming in steam,
one thing
to another,
here a stitch, there another, fifty years, and more
we won every war,
we won every war,

we won every war,
that got within a hundred thousand English words of
this action actively involved, literally, actually,
in defining the terms of weaponry allowed,
when war was called to reason… ready
to give an answer for the faith in it,

in the everlasting experiment
becoming
us, then us becoming
something else, too quick to tell,
like something fallen
from the Higgs field, pfft.

Gone.