The being called Bob Dylan, asked me,
- caught my attention
- a blur on the radio

I asked, what if we entered empty,
came into the life
we lived through, we the old who
slipped that little rudder,
that pushes the bigger rudder, sailors
know the nomenclature
it creates chaos in the wake,
sail on, what were we hoping to find?

Sam Phillips from Sun Records
some link to us all, eachly, singin' t'me.
- there were songs saying sing me
I am the thing being asked as the you,
and the me,
and the we, I think you know what I mean,
--- did you really wannabe a rockstar?
--- was it not some older thing
you wished
to be.

A wizard was it? Yes. A wise old man,
anonymous, well quipped, sharp tongue
kind
healing swift cut, through the clench,
bite this,
incise decision to cut to the quick,
quickening
real deal, offered for free, it was given to me
and I never used it,
it's just an idea,
try thinking
a song does do this, but this is your song
vain you, who admit thinking it all
about you, when the link is
word to mind, no translation, no silly riddle
to bless yo' pea-pickin' heart.

Real life, once, one day, I picked peas,
so I do know, there is a pea-pickin' heart
and when it happens to be blessed,
it gets to be silly the old way, blessed
with a fine morning and birds that look lucky
to the kind of minds that discern such,
lucky birds, lucky me, got peas t' pick
and each pea I pick
is a wee bit o'money like matter
in my pocket,
as a thought, with this, blessed pea-pickin' heart

expanding as I live and breath,
peace I make
stays where I store, until, as we all hoped
hope over flows,
come be
still, this lives, this river, that was dammed,
this river wishes power were drawn
from the proud forces vulcan boasts of being
stuffed,
American stuffed, not raw Aussie outback stuffed,
live and learn, poetry takes time
to build the volition, gnoshit, time takes

attention to -- sense- shake fingers in air above head
ritual wu wu
right, that works, that goes into the legendary stock ***.

--Besom of destruction, some of the mess remains.
-- Besom of destruction, come sweep this mess away

So the bass is always the wizard, the knower in the clan.
We all share a part of knowledge, we need
each the other being savvy we are in one ***,

being watched, bubbles never forming, tempers rising
what is the heat to my skin,
ah
yes, the forces that fire sparks to jump the gaps,
augmented vision lets
us see, we are frighteningly complex beings
with bubbling souls.

In a state always called a universe from the inside.
Inside a mortal bubble,
at the very core, very being the philosophically precise,
not on the dotted line,
cut there,
that one point, empty find, for a future reason,
when you chose
to leave be, the prospect of unknowing knowns.

--- the legends all retell themselves,
--- caused by virtue of onliness,
--- amused as I was, entertaining
Interesting times need an attention economy
or we all become scatter brains,
drawn to screaming whispers whistling praise
worshipping wondering if I can ever prove
there is no hell.
Unless Jesus is a liar, himself
not the story greatly told at the heart
of the new order in the information economy
calling fractal realism
back into the every day opera of life,
down the drain,
drawn to
a river, literate-ly, reading itself to me,
the part of me noted in the book of life,
that bubble,
we be in, what was it you wanted?
Fame, or free from blame,
free from guile used to trigger shame,
those who wrestle with the message,
guile is there as game, she knew
mom, she knew, "I was beguiled."

Tricked, made to know all around,
the whole is good, and what was missing
was my knowing, my own knowing
the art of knowing more than names,
know ing I am naked, and
he told me he knew, I know, taste and see
To be seen, or
maybe to be known
as the hand that held the pen,
that
volunteered to make will seem too free
to talk
to sing
to wait to see if others heard the union songs.

Listening to Dylan, knowing the wind he said
he heard blowing
when I was a little boy,
is the wind that wraps the bubble
of air we share
Chronicles, his book is called,
Sean Penn reads it, and I can see them both
at stages,
boy to man to old man with a wish
to do whatever good
might

might
make the tempest tamed
seem willed slow
to geotime
mind-wise, in the way
of minds being
made up
to push toward emptiness,
to fill yours
with my emptying efforting, sweat
of my frontal cortex,
inner sweat.
They call that fretting, inner sweating.

So we teach our children, think
fret not, no sweat
apple a day keep the bleeding doctor away

aware of my power to hear that same
response, from the wind,
when I listen, assuming
you, dear reader, draw some sense,
of the vain vanity,

We must include you.
Do you wish this not so? What do you know?

Many wishes go wasted,
for lack of a mind made up to finish the story.

When you are old, older than any first time
you care to remember,
you feel older than any first time, remembery
moments
seen on a circuitous path down a meandering course,

of course, this is that
course of human events in which we
appear to be involved with clearing the air,

sweeping troubles away, shatter pots,
rotten thoughts, fiddle-sticks,
that was the word, fiddle-sticks, it meant
****, that didn't work,

-- The we I am in at that tip of taxonomy,
the pen, the fold

told that we know, by right opposed to wrong,
which
everybody in this we knows, I am at best a bit,
informing
you.
In the realm things manifest from-in-with-within
confidently, ensampled faith, mine, in me,
see
this is what I wished, I wished to know what
could provoke the stories told to children
who are new know nothings, born
into the safety of we, the people,
who follow a thought held
in words, written in stone and stars, and acts
of living things occurring around us in times,
lifetimes, many times
more and less than mine, yet in the oily slickness
golden oil
I recall,
not knowing this was my request…
- there a call, Rachel, from Dealer Services
AI, checking my access, robocalls are keeping me
alive, re
minding me, I have a say in what we think
at this point, stretched to form a line
in the naturally ready silicon surface ions form
a channel, a brook, or a rill
a poetic little river we can leave a nymphobia
to guard… grimacing do not **** with me

THIS is the peace made in sacred fonts of old,
it feels as if flowing from my left ear
when I first began to leak my
inner daemons, quickie routines to tweak,
the original tiny twist to correct an imbalance
gone
too far. A tic would be imagined as a flick
in time, not as a tweak.

Any way, at this stage Art is tic auspectically
aware you are there, as
wished, hmm, now, I am at a loss for words,

like an electron hole emptiness
ready to take hold
of the next new that fits