Well, the bigot spoked.
And the non bigot listen.
And professed that those that hates.
Feel empowered to do so because no one stands up to them.

The gay bashers spoked.
And got highly offended.
When the gay person joked back.

Judge not.
If you can be judged.
Your voice can't be the only voice heard.

The sexist spoked.
And became the blunt of many people opinion.
And stated people was picking upon them.

Speak not.
If you can't stand the heat.

Violence of any kind is a way of intimidation.
We witness that in religions.
Plus, within many nations.

The wise person spoke.
And many acted confused.
And it only happen.
Because their message affected you.

When we were eighteen the valley of the plums, prunes and apricots
kept us beaming. I had come from the north, from the nuclear
town on the Columbia River.

I never yearn for the desert sand in the wind, or the feeling
that above and beyond the first mountain men were doing things
not meant for the rest of the world to view, except that one of
those men was my father.

The company moved us to the new place, the California farm
town. Here the soil, worked hard by orchardists,
yielded a sweet aroma that persuaded us to be fond of the earth.

We would go to school and work the summer jobs, slicing cots
and stuffing fruit in cans all night, and then I would fall in love.
That is where the “we” enters.

I drove an old English sports car with a wooden frame and
wire-spoked wheels, a windshield that would drop down for
a full dose of the highway wind.

Dwellers arrived here quickly from afar. Some said it
was for the weather. Never very hot or cold, an incubational
paradise for the thousands of acres of fruit teees.

We had to stand back from the evening bonfires, and were sorrowful,
watching the fruit trees chopped, piled and torched.
This progress made me think of the American Indians.
I had seen them netting salmon on the Columbia River at Celilo Falls before the dams,
the gray concrete walls that turn gravity into a light bulb.
(I would like to flip a switch and turn on the river).

We asked ourselves what would be the limits of this 1960s
unbridled growth. Some were talking of expanding
to the moon, while we were considering holing up
in a mountain retreat.

The valley of the fruit became unrecognizable. Next
in my neighborhood a multi-story building slammed into the sky.
If even one could be built here, why not
one more Hong Kong?

We drove to the mountains in the spring when the western
slopes filled with wild flowers, and flew kites and laughed into the
face of the oncoming wind, and kissed. Love might
conquer all.

The ocean side of the range is where we knew we wanted to be.
Riding waves and kicking around in the kelp beds at
Pleasure Point. Less room for a building boom, unless steel platforms were
erected over the waves. Who knows that such an idea is even
now on the drawing boards.

We married and made the move and remain there still. A tiny house
built during one of the greater wars of the last century by
Hawaiian flower farmers, who knew nothing about how to
build a sturdy house, and had no blossom money for their dreams.

My dream is awake there though, the little house and the tiny rooms
that only want to hear the birds of the forest come near.
Daffodils and roses, enormous zucchinis, and an old
pear tree that I write poems about in the spring, and
two girls who love the ocean.

That’s about it. My whole autobiography composed this bright
sunny morning in the hills above San Luis Reservoir in
the central valley, where I come from time to time to write
and ponder the tall grass.

My parents are close by in the national veteran’s cemetery,
where I put them a few sad years ago.

I see some of the details are missing. It’s easy to fill
in the missing information–the story most of us might tell.
We’ve wept over the loss of farms, flowing rivers,
and fought the war against the war, and wondered
why we cannot just live in a teepee at the base of Yosemite Falls.

In the background, a steady trickle of death, disease, work.
I am guilty of confusing work with death and disease, but that’s
just my own hard-earned opinion.

There have been birthday cakes and communions, bicycle rides
and Monterey fish eating, candles burning in winter storms,
old tool sheds full of her paintings, a stack of notebooks with
my scribbling.

The valley of the fruit continues stacking buildings.
The redwoods here continue growing.

I found you

lone brick, of a million, one part of a mortared whole

your brothers now buried by time, without benediction  

progeny of clay, shale, you were born in a kiln as hot as all creation

dragged to this plain by spoked wheel and mule--sweat of the honest illiterate

long before the dusters blew the crops to hell, and Tom Joad's kin to the promised land

the mason who laid you in a proud straight row is now in the ground too

not a mile from you, where the county put him the hot Friday a man set foot on the moon

the bricklayer’s days with the trowel long past, his memories of you, your place in all weathers interred with him  

I found you , and you are the man’s legacy, he yours

8:25 am
Tuesday, April 24, 2018

His eyes spoke words that his mouth couldn't say
A warm breeze danced with his hair as I looked up
The sun stood on his shoulder giving him a peachy kiss
Chocolate caramel his eyes were but when he looked away they turned into glowing logs of wood
His hands tightly around my waist they stayed as he spoked soft words of poetry
Then a pause … our rib cages met and our hearts reached out for each other one last time
The stare between us was intense the type of intense you only see in movies, one last time our eyes locked
One last time, a goodbye kiss, gentle and sweet, taste of honey, the remaining color we had, spilled
One last time, a goodbye kiss

-sol

An abyss that echoes shrieks of eagles circling above:
the moon lies smashed in her sunken depths by nights,
this pit of enveloping darkness, a vessel emptied of life.

Brick by brick, aeons layer her walls, who knows when
she was dug? she carries fragrances of primordial waters
gathered in the heart of earth to the winds of the present.

Long before Joseph's well, she stood when desert land
was verdant wood, and before the earth was tread
asunder by the chariot, this graveyard of the stars.

Plunder she has seen, and abuse as she towers over the past.

Not a wellspring, emptied dry, but a bowl abegging.
The bowl that gave a creed to a continent?
Caravans pass by disgraced crevices remnant
of that era, gone long of stone. Effeminate, she pawned
her bricks over for a life. Or a well to collect the dead,
frightened by the hundreds by the colonial bullet.

Rise and fall, she carries in her wheel of life, her spoked zero.
Of which yet arises a homespun yarn of dreams.

Darkness wells forth from this abysmal chasm, and her
waters cause feuds by brother to brother. Men of straw,
of whom in a few years, no trace would remain,
yet remain and the dove that flew the night a tryst was made
still challenges the jacketed savant on Parliament square.
A pair of inverted eyes guard the gates of darkness.

And now and again, you see yet a star
shooting out to the skies again from the waters: to the moon,
a mushroom cloud, a circling satellite, and an octet notes.

She's not one well: her waters brackish, are
a thousand islands, that came together under the shadow
of an empire on whom the sun never sets.
Count the roots of the banyan, trees.
Her sons grow weak and lumpen. Her daughters rise.
And so she endures, this ancient mother.

In her depths, on the day, when the star of David is reversed,
she endures the ******* reversed, that shined in her of ages ago.
Of men, two quarters great, arise from the same shadow:
The eagle on the west, and the dove on the east.
The not is the all, the zero is everything.
Eternity, two zeros conjoined.

"1 in 8 women will develop breast cancer over her lifetime"
my mother’s eyes did not blink as she spoked riddles.
i stared at the lump. an alien invading.
War of the Worlds.
"For women in the U.S., breast cancer death rates are higher than those for any other cancer, besides lung cancer."
she was in the hospital, a week, or two. it felt like five years.
i did not sleep that summer.
drunk off sake, my mother still did not cry.
"In 2011, an estimated 230,480 new cases of invasive breast cancer were expected to be diagnosed in women in the U.S."
the night before surgery, I cried until my lungs flopped to the floor
like two useless sacs of atoms.
I scratched my skin until morning,
waiting until my veins leaked.
"A woman’s risk of breast cancer approximately doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer."
some days my ******* will sting, and I imagine a small demon,
with horns and razor teeth eating away at the inside of my *******.
when in the shower, I will cusp them in my hands, waiting to feel bumps.
instead I feel too small *******, with a heart that beats too fast.
nights, I dream of my mother with only one breast,
I dream of myself with no *******
The most significant risk factors for breast cancer are gender (being a woman) and age (growing older).*
let me never grow older, for I do not want my territory
stained. but I feel it squirming, and I want to **** it out with my
teeth.

it is pathetic that I am most worried about shaving my
head.

I love you.
Except , I can't tell you.
I want you.
Except, I won't admit it.
I love the way friends states they know.
But, how can they?
When I hadn't even spoked.

It's in my eyes.
It's in my voice.
Least to them.
When I speak concerning you.
Where the evidence?
Exactly, where's the proof?
To me.
It's totally news.

In my dreams.
You are there.
In my minds.
Thoughts of you appears.

I guess.
It's a self denial I'm going through.
Afraid to admit, my love for you.

The funniest thing about the Andy Griffith Show.
He had an aunt that he loved so.
Which took time for Opie to know.

He had a deputy with one bullet.
Give him more.
Then you were in for a show.
But, he also had a famous phase.

Like "Nip It In The Bud".
Which every now and then, he spoked.
In truth Bernard P. Fife was vital to the show.

Yes, the funniest thing about the Andy Griffith Show.
He was a good parent first and fore most.
He was fair and firm.
When it came to his son.
After all.
He only had one.
Unlike that , of My Three Sons.

The men seems to gather at the Barber Shop.
Which , we still see today.
And like Flyod, many talked before they cut.
And many times.
He would cut too low.
Yes, this was part of the fun of the Andy Griffith Show.

Who doesn't remember Otis?
Who could teach many drunks today's a lesson.
He personally checked himself in.
Just to sober up and leave again.

Who doesn't remember that adult kid Ernest T. Bass?
Who many of times was sneaky and smart?
Or wanted a uniform just to wear it with class.

Of course the black and white shows are better than color.
All because they are so much funnier.
We admire Thelma Lou.
Still trying to figure out exactly what she did do?

We remember even Ellie.
Who wouldn't give a senior citizen?
A sugar tablet.

Yes, this was part of the fun of the Andy Griffith Show.
I could go on.
But I stop for now.
Least until, I see the show when Bill Bixby learn a lesson.
From visiting the town.

The face of a church has always been the pastor.
Before mega churches came along.
And everyone's wants to be a Bishop.

He stood at the door and greets you.
Simply made you felt like you were at home.
While the small choir or congregation.
Belted out a famous old hymn song.

Like, How Great Thou Art?
Or Amazing Grace.
Or maybe, the Old Rugged Cross.
There wasn't away you wasn't going to feel close to God.

The Pastor.
The main face of your church.
Who invited anyone and everyone to come to worship.

There wasn't no way you couldn't say.
He wasn't a man of God.
Because in all his sermons to the church.
He spoked highly about the love required of God.

In a society filled with racial hate.
He would nail the hammer down.
That God wouldn't accept you into his Kingdom.

And ,whether you have anything for offering or not.
He wouldn't push or shove you to give a lot.
He simply stated to you to give, what you got?

Cause, he always ways spoke truth.
That God answer's prayers according to their needs.

He wanted you to prosper.
But not to lose focus.

The Pastor.
The messenger of the Lord.
Teaching us the truest way to love.

***!!! If I had the power to magically hug people through the internet...


Patience.
It's coming.

And when it does,
No one will never sleep alone,
Weep inconsolably for lack of shoulder and hand
For I travel with a lean-on-tent
Travel with shelter for you,
Will you have it, have me, by command?

I used to write flowery poems, with fancy words
About flowers and such stuff,
But I gave it up,
No more, I will be now no longer
Poet electron florid,
But the real, not ethereal, delivery man.

Giving you loving kisses, tenderness, and
Mayflowers in December,
And kindness every day of my life and
Even after,
Cause heavens come on line
And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

Ok, maybe not Ogden quality,
This oeuvre, but I can do it over,
Can he?

Does, will he, read customized poems
With shiny bumpers, trim and spoked wheels,
Purposed only to please
You specifically,
In your soon-to-be-smiling flesh!

Like I will,
Soon enough.
You'll see.

Oh yeah. To summon me,
Just clap your hands three times,
Say out loud poet-in-the-hat,
And press Send.

You gave me bad news as I walked out the door
Guess the winds of karma are catching up
Still I search for the boundless space treasury
With hooks of compassion in my heart
Your spiritual residue does nothing but sting
Your god is godless in the big empty
Near attainment with half-closed eyes
I look up and see the symbols in the sky
The red and white beads are making their journey
Praying for confusion soothed and fear pacified
The hollow illusion and the 8-spoked wheel
Are frowned upon by the Lady of the Space Realm

Soft spots mark up
the body and spark

plugged up: an implosion

syrup sweet weeps sticky substances
like love, chuunibyou, and other delusions

dreamed: in language strange
spoked, soaked in sulphur

a beautiful man without mercy hath thee in thrall

Long before anything existed.
I existed.
For I am God.
I am legend.

I knew when.
I knew how.
And of course I know why?
All because I am God almighty.
If anything is legendary.
It would be me.

If I never met you personally by the creation.
I have created.
I'd still exist.
For I am God.
I'm the legend spoked boldly about.

Other has changed my name to accomplish their mission in my name.
Still, I am God.
And no one can prove I don't existence in this world.

I'm a force of spiritual reckoning beyond measure.
And it's truly a pleasure to know me.
Some in this world have mythical status.
I have legendary recognition.

I'm glorified by many.
And magnified by plenty.
Who am I, you ask?
I am God a legendary force forever.

Ask yourself this?
Who is a citizen in many nations?
Who has the power to control many crisis?
Who listen to your problems anytime, anywhere?
Who do some turn to?
When they think no one cares?
It's me God.

Call me a Spirit.
Call me a Force.
They all be true.

Just know this.
I am here for you.
For I am God.
And I am legend.
No other upon this earth can help the way I do.


All rights belongs to Jeffrey T. Conyers (C)

A child held up a sign stating they needed a home.
Instantingly folks worked assit that child.

A homeless soul held up a sign stating they were hungry.
Instantly, someone worked on ways to feel that soul.
The many ways love grows.

A lonely older person asked for the truth.
Instantly, someone with familarity of the scriptures read the word to them.
God wants his children's closed to him.
They read the Be-atitudes softly with sincerity.
The many ways love grows.

A millionaire suddenly lost everything important to them.
Instantly, a friend spoked and reminded them.
Before you was rich.
You were richer in heart.
That truth and recognition is about your heart.
Instantly, they beginned to see all kinds of possibilities.
Yes, the many ways love grows.
When you find wisdom.

Some lesson.
We must learn the hard way.
That's why many parents works to guide us.

Except as a child.
We sometimes likes to use our own mind.

Here child?
I've have a present for you.
Your choice.
On which one you like.

A whole dollar.
Or a hundred pennies.

And like a child I went for the green.
Only later to find truth.
When my mom honestly spoked to me.

She bought truth and logic too.
When she stated I should have took the pennies.

She stated if I lost the dollar.
I would be completely broke.
But if I lost a penny.
I would still be rich.
Because people would replace a penny in a minute.

While getting another dollar might be harder.

The streetlight is shaped like a lantern
And its golden light spills out in a clear, spoked pattern of darkness and illumination
Its shadows stretch long
And reach their fingers into your empty windows.
If I stand at its base, I stand at the center of a great perfect wheel of light that sprays in all directions.
I speak to you
Because you speak to me.
I wonder
If you recognize the surgical mask swinging from my arm
Soft and white.
They tell me your walls breathe poison
They tell me
That I shouldn't.
I stand and whisper to you
Who I am
Who I have been.
Perhaps the shade of a girl like me
Peers out your yawning windows
Through the spaces where the glass has been punched out
Past the ragged, yellowed curtains that sag limply from above
Out
From between the leafless ivy that twists its gnarled strands up your crumbling skin and digs into all your weaknesses.
Perhaps if I had shown myself a bit earlier
If my life had begun before it did
Perhaps we would have met in a different way.
It makes me sad that I fear you.
Your stone steps, carpeted with dead leaves, black metal railings leaning drunkenly to either side.
Your unnatural stillness.
But I do not fear to walk your halls
Not like the others.
No,
I do not fear you
I fear to become you.
That still
And that lifeless
Like a tree which has long since died and the core rotted
But the husk remains standing
As if it contains something alive.
Are you lonely?
Are you still afraid?
What does it feel like every night
When this streetlight above me blinks on
And peeks inside your high windows?
Do you rush to shut the drapes
Soggy and transparent as they are
Try to pull some tattered protection over the garish
Harsh emptiness you hold?
I stand here
And I feel you looking back at me
And I am sorry that nothing lives in you
And I am afraid that nothing lives
In me.
And if I were to go upstairs and peer out your top windows
I am afraid I would become see through
Like a strip of film
Illuminated.
I fear that I would be a projection on a solid world
And I fear
That somebody
Would turn out
The light.

Within my hand.
I read the holy book of scriptures.
And understood more about the word.
Then from those that spoken.

God spoke volumes in just a few line.
If you love me.
Then keep my commandments.

With self-control it isn't hard to do.
It's strange.
But true.

When he spoked to Moses in terms of the tablets.
He spoke honestly and wisdom too.

Thou shalt not steal.
The consequences doesn't benefit a thief.
Thou shalt not lie.
All they do is multiply.
Thou shalt not ****.
We know life has more to give.
And if we reach out to our neighbor in goodness.
You'll find a connection only getting better.

Who seeks another spouse?
Only seeking to divide their own house.

Within my hands.
the scriptures taught me more then a leader's voice.

Yes, as much as the preacher preach.
And the teacher teach.
It's up to us to let the message sink in.
Cause some change the scriptures to benefit them.

Sometimes , you feel you have to educate them.

The Alchemist made potions
he had a workshop, mysterious
it was ever in motion
the atmosphere, serious

the walls were covered in books
tomes of questionable origin
apparatus to cook
and a rusty old storage bin

spoked wheels spun
pistons reciprocated
condensers did hum
solids liquidated

viscous and translucent
solutions illuminated
slightly florescent
masses accumulated

he will put it on heat
and add a caustic injection
hit a switch at his feet
and pause for reflection

all the ingredients
for his ultimate goal
he could finally achieve it
turn iron to gold!

My breath caught, frozen in July
Summer's heat, couldn't draw near
Such was the sight, broken before me

Crouching, ******* the earth
The town broken, lay before me
Radiated in charcoal end, smoking embers

Centered around, spoked out
Once standing proud, a church
Only its brass cross now, tombstoned

Precious packaged, I circled
Searching for life, not charred remains
Either eluded me, ash rained

I crept, grey cloaked and hidden
Strange stories, whispered on mens lips
In homes lit brighter, the night seemed darker

Far East, something had risen
Had cast of ill formed shells, shrugged
Minds and bodies, bent strange

My destination, unsurvived
This brimstone eruption, complete
Little but a frame, withered home

Sifting through wreckage, human and debris
The hand was there, stiff and curled
Wearing the ring, but not a ring

Sawn, not touched
The hand, with me
As well, the ring

In its place, less burdened
The package, placed
Payment for, left handed thief

Spending moments, no less
I sought the church, devoid of life
Additional promise, hidden away

It's timber splintered, crushing
Burned from within, cries on the wind
Its doors had been barred, broken in

Protecting souls, blacken, wooden and thin
Strange symbols, golden jeweled, silver skinned
The Hanging God, crucified and crowned

Such as gods may, none were saved
Children, babies and mothers alike
All tortured by flame, fire

Treasure, reburied in hold
Leather bound, and square
And the thief, hand ring

I redonned cloak, boot and stick
Wrapped in grey, clinging to shadow
With twightlite falling, sped foot

Far from this place, burned to soot
Too many human, blooded and torn
But most haste, those dead and unhuman

I watched close the shadowed, deep
Fearing to be followed, more; unsleep
Seeking to deliver unholy, but my soul keep

What peace is it?
That I seek quiet time with my God.
What peace is it?
That I request moments alone.

A serenity of tranquility of silence.
When alone your mind is at rest.
Least to the point you block all distraction completely out.

What peace is it?
That God of creation works his upon us.
And Lord Jesus spoked Peace be unto you to his disciples too.

What peace is it?
That I truly tries to seek.

It's a peace.
Where wars are not allowed?
Not in God's kingdom.
And not in my life.

To the faithful that center in the audience.
Many were suprised by the invited guest.
Which were them.

They came from all denomination.
Because of the great invitation.

When prompted to stand upon their feets.
As, with some in church.
A few complained.
Until Jesus Spoked.

He stated to those leaders of faith.
Love me, as you love God.
Through me you come to the father above.

Don't keep creating strife.
Because of difference ideology.
Cause what you're preaching in sermons.
Is a representation of me.

A few walked out.
And he realized they wasn't true.
Like in church.
We realized them too.

Jesus has spoken with just a few words.
And those that stayed.
Was the one that received the word.

Wild mind grown gentle in survival.

Christ, the mind, not the imagined, the actual
what would the persona in the role be bound to do?

Destroy the works of the captivator, the adversary
of sanity,
the governmental mind, the entity of empires amore-
pheum fume de an English man,

sung in presentation saying I am seed of a dream,
messages were racing up and down on ladders loaded
with message carriers, each having for wings,
wheels spinning so fast, the spokes were lifted on wind.
Ezekial said, spoked wheels in each of those, and inside that
wheels in wheel I tell you, I swooned,
-I knew, all things do work,
it’s a process…
and one line later I learn, I am in the book of life.
Just think of that, of all the readers of any line,
you read mine.
In your time.
And gave me cause. Ready is read past-tension. Sprung.

Our friends stated,
it wasn't the well best secret in the world.
Still I wants to know.
Who told you?

Told you that I had feelings for you.
There are things I personally keep to myself.
But our friends states they saw the messages in my eyes.
Least everytime you passed by.

Still I wants to know.
Who told you?

They said I constantly spoked your name.
To the point they thought they were going insane.
Even those that didn't know you at all.
Pointed you out as the one.
That in my eyes I adored.

Still, the question's remains.
Who told you?

Some stated I was too shy.
To explain to you what was on my mind.
So, now it seems it was them.
Who told you?

I wanted you forever by my side.

A center stripe on such a road would be no more than affectation,
The prospect of two vehicles on the same stretch of this blacktop
Which ambles from nowhere to nowhere, old logging path
Morphed into a convenience for fishermen or bird watchers
Heading to the odd bits of Adirondack Park land
Scattered higgeldy-piggeldy in its path
All but a mathematical impossibility.
Indeed, the fog lines are barely visible, a series of dots and dashes
Along the crumbling berm of the shoulders,
And the signs testifying to the calamitous curves ahead
Are faded and pock-marked
In testament to generations of pellet-gun marksmanship
And twelve-ounce projectiles.
There remain the odd traces of the byway’s former usefulness:
Rusted blades or unevenly-spoked wheels
Left behind by ancient logging outfits,
The odd abandoned hunting camp, and here and there,
Visible through gaps in thick, ancient stands of pine
(Having outlasted the original settlers and logging concerns
Through the sheer stubborn implacability of biology),
You might see an anomalous abandoned bus up on blocks,
And there are those who have sworn they have seen them
Adorned with curtains in the windows,
But that is most certainly a trick of the light,
A mis-apprehension of something half-glimpsed
By the drivers as they sped by.

I expressed myself through words that I have spoked and have written.
But nobody can seem to understand what's hidden

They seem to care and love it.
But behind closed doors the shun and despise it.

Is there truly no one who'd appreciate the sincere work I've done.
Maybe somehow, someday that person might show up and make me forget the bad ones

How I wish they would all be like that...

What peace is it?
That I seek quiet time with my God.
What peace is it?
That I request moments alone.

A serenity of tranquility of silence.
When alone your mind is at rest.
Least to the point you block all distraction completely out.

What peace is it?
That God of creation works his upon us.
And Lord Jesus spoked Peace be unto you to his disciples too.

What peace is it?
That I truly tries to seek.

It's a peace.
Where wars are not allowed?
Not in God's kingdom.
And not in my life.

you make me feel new
truth is, we stole the moon
when we kissed, it’s true
your skin so smooth
and my words like rusted roots
i wish i could spoke
i wish i speaked
i wish i told it
i wish i spoked
i’m broken and weak
and can only speak
of my love for you
in this drunken speech

Had it never occurred that I needed you. My washed up face and energies spent on the splashed and slashed price tags of our youth. The cigarette toasties and the perfumed hallways melted in the background of the wooden spoked wheel. Looking strangled from the hung & hitched ceramic body with incense laden sprawled askew I can now appreciate what that once was. Plaster always surrounded us in our uniformed uninformed day by dazed existence that went on to makeup our evolutionary now that is. I went my way and you yours and I fear forever that our paths may never cross. I recall this blue and silver pen that I received from my father years back...and like you, it is also non replicable and irreplaceable. Like Clouds for all but gone.

in a thick milk bottle
a dark green one
which grandfather found on the beach after the war
having inside a shriveled yellow paper
without any drawing
without any inscription
the grandmother's ashes stayed for a while

grandmother being skinny
the bottle was almost empty
so the grandfather put the paper back in place

when he missed her
he took the bottle
put it on his chest
and spoked to her
and when my grandmother had to answer him
he was turning it like an hourglass
and so he did for two years
until he crouched too
(although it was harder
because he was hefty)
in the milk bottle

then
to make room for him
I finally took that sheet
and I stuck it on the window

when it rains on the sea and it's lightning
on both sides of the paper
two overlapping palms can be seen
one of a woman
and the other of a man
crossed in filigree
by a single line of life

nothing else

cup of tea passed round and round,
two steeped plants grown in the ground,
take a drink, and taste and think,
liquid flowing down the pink
throat / sound of silence, silence of the sound
of retching and the wretched world
got drowned—curdled, and
unwound:
reality spun into a sink,
inability to blink,
plaster cracking veins, blue and green,
spores falling
beneath a peeling skin now seen
the consciousness of which our minds are but
receivers and a screen,
if I want to scream, I'll scream
if I want to end, I'll end
but on the flow will go forever and—
on my bike I ride
knowing I am not I but eye
which from up on high perceives
I and I and I
and round and round the spoked wheel spins
without / within
asking: Albert Hoffman never left,
so where has he been?