My three daughters and I
Spot, Blue and sweet Timex,
live within the walls
of this Verona like  apartment,
Missy, the Black Lab who played nursemaid
to these three I believe, aided and abetted
sweet Timex's foray.
I, a Capulet, truly love my daughters
but easily fly into rages,
wishing a fair and providing man for them,
not the hell of the Montague clan,
namely bighead. Bighead roams the streets the alleys the back woods
no earnings or propriety,
no means to his unmatted fur,
his wild houls in the night, testament.
The nurse then, on a late night, asked to go out.
I tired, got complacent and out timex flied!
She returned a week later,
not the young kitten, playful,
but a Cat, with hunger in her eyes.
Spot and Blue, still are eager to discover the outsides,
Probably filled in on all that is there,
by Timex. And she no longer plays.
She even meows different now,
seems to meow
O Bighead, wherefore art thou Bighead!

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

Meditation on a Ten-Dollar Timex Watch

A watch doesn’t really tell time, you know
Its tiny mechanism sweeps three hands
Around a dial locked in a little case
Upon a strap buckled around your wrist

And there it imitates the planet’s spin
And the planet’s spin is ordained by God
And the watch’s spin is ordained by man
So that we get to our haircuts on time

The solar system is a mighty work -
And a visit to the barber is nice

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

To be alone
Is to be complete

They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?

We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain

The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades

Anomie is the word of the decade

The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties

Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace

Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed

The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent

I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff

Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs

Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex

No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company

Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?

Did I ever ride one of these casino busses?
That's how I met my wife.

Is this weird enough?
seven measured spans of ten plus some,
this bit, this collection of second chances,
in how many?
in ever,
how many spans of tens have passed, without me?
or,
without the star stuff Sagan says  
I am made of?

or I am made? I was.

That's the measure of my worth,

nay, I say.
Rue the day I told that lie

shall be my epitath, should I leave without
a-counting
them there ex
acted, mockinbird killin' days and ways we was

when we was
never governed, as a people, or a tribe.
as ids,
we was wild injuns, us kids was. we did as we pleased.

life was fine,
livin' by the river, you can imagine a cloud

occlusion of green greasewood smoke
softening a barely waking moon
four thumbs high at sundown

keeping fairy tales down low enough
that grandpas
can snag

-- and release and come back jack, right here
--to this dangling hook

and it's always gonna be this way

catch and release,

life's story your story goes on.
You never lose your place,

that's mortally impossible
to pose a

quandry
quandary (n.)"state of perplexity," 1570s, of unknown origin, perhaps a quasi-Latinism based on Latin quando"when? at what time?; at the time that, inasmuch," pronominal adverb of time, related to qui"who" (from PIE root *kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns). Originally accented on the second syllable.

pronomial adverb, eh?
Writers were warned away from adverbs,
back when grammar tyranny strained
at knots and gnostic gnats magi-ifical
add-on augmented at your own risc

made you notice
tech times change faster than Timex

Sinclair-- sorry, senility function was left on from earlier missions

Force-recon recollected war stories being moved permanently into fish story status before
legend adds a layer
of gloryshit
at funerals.

Reduced Instruction Set Chip, chip
chipping is
addiction diction
A.I. *** us a whole Yah bus win, it's
Free Play day at the Ol' Folk Home.

We sing old songs on the way to Viejas and
laugh about all we left in Vegas.

German refugee husband: “Liebchen – sweetness – what watch?”

German refugee wife: “Ten watch.”

Husband: “Such watch?”

Carl the Bartender: “You will get along beautifully in America.”

                                      -Casablanca

I­ check the time on my retirement watch
(A Seiko; they did not think much of me)
And consider that there is no time at all
Unless Creation is some sort of clock

Childhood is watchless, timeless, careless, free
But adults must be catalogued and timed:
Bulova, Timex, Rolex, and Longines
And even a railway Regulator

I check the time on my retirement watch -
And hustle off to my chapter two job

One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.

At a loose end
when all I need is for
someone to send me an
invitation,
Even a summons to the court would do
oh
if only you knew how this lonely life creaks through the
days and the weeks
and nobody calls me.

I always set a place for two,
wondering when and if or who will come
and sit for some tea.but
usually it's me
no one comes
I eat all the buns,drink all the tea and
how very lonely life can be.

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”

                                              -Thoreau

Som­e six or so cheap watches set in a row
Ten-dollar Timex models with shabby straps
Cast-offs and hand-me-downs – and so one asks:
Why are there watches on a refectory table?

The abbey’s clocks are the moon and the sun
And the cycle of seasons each in turn
The changing leaves and liturgies in time
With the Great Dance of stars in their appointed spheres

But even so:

Those six or so cheap watches set in a row

Are

For outside appointments - and now we know!

On the real I think people like  to be controlled..
Cause what they call freedom is not freedom its really the lost of the soul..
Global powers in lust for oil and the gold..
Bullet shells and precious metals..
These wars are not God inspired these are mans goals
Christ is my blacksmith so this is not the *** pointing at the kettle..
Pledging to a flag is like a builder pledging to mold
Like this house won't take your life..
Just like siding with the wrong just because it feels right
Tick toc..tick toc not too much time left
Running this rat race but you can't out run death
Its like trying to race a bullet.
Running flat footed...
I advise diving for you get shot..
You cannot hide when its time for you heart to stop...
Oh yes its that real..
I guess that's why people don't want to chill..
See a yellow light punch it before it turns red.. .
Get your life right before you turn dead..
What does it really mean to be ahead..
I don't know  but people want everything fast...
Fast cars, fast cash, fast food..
Fast when you crash your diet no one is disease
proof..
Fast electronics it better be faster if its new.
Accelerated class quick college degrees too..
Timex time piece.  
Wartime deny peace..
Time on credit pay it for your interest increase..
Time at a residence locked in a lease..
Time is forever will it ever cease.
Time spoils food now there's nothing to eat. .
Time like a run on sentence it could be shorter. ..
Time changes things like a dollar bill to four quarters..
Time is challenged like walking through a line minefield..
Time waits for no man It doesn't yield

Maura gave me a watch
Many Christmasses ago;
Time and again its hands
Moved me.
It had a crystal face,
Nickel-plated case,
A golden crown,
Calendar window,
And a dial with Arabic numerals.
A ten dollar Timex
That made me feel like a million.
The brothers didn't have a watch,
But I had a second hand
For accurate readings
Of who could **** the longest,
Hold their breath for two minutes,
How long it took for the kettle to boil,
Or a snail to crawl.
Everything could be timed,
And timing, like my watch,
Was everything.
I was the timekeeper,
And took duties seriously.
I wore it on my left arm,
One day the sweep second froze,
The big and little hands stopped.
A spring or something broke;
The date was a constant
Grim reminder.

He slides his cheap little Timex
onto his wrist and hops into
the passenger seat.

We could end up just about anywhere,
the local video store, a coffee shop,
the myriad of thrift stores,
or the ******* moon.

He doesn’t care,
as long as I turn him loose.

He just wants to be a big guy,
and wishes he had a squad of
loud cohorts to tag alongside
but, he doesn’t.

So, we hit the street,
my boy and I,
and I warn him…

'Don’t leave the building,
don’t go with anyone;
be back here in 30 minutes.'
He nods vigorously,
anxious to be off.

At the bottom of the 35th minute,
my nerves creep up.
Recalling the time I was almost
kidnapped.
I’ve never forgotten that old man
with his cane covered in etched snakes
and his offering of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

I’m in that hospital hallway, near that drinking fountain,
and my momma steps out of nowhere: “Jay”, she says loudly;
“You get over here by me.”
I move to her side without a word, but with a new awareness.

Fast-forward 30 years, and I’m back.
Standing worried near customer-service;
thinking about how easily swayed  he can be.

I hear a quiet ‘hello’
and can breathe again.
*
-JB Claywell
©P&ZPublications;
2015

After that Sunset, on the full range mortal man
per
ifery vision, edge to edge, brow blur to brow blur
rolling hills and shadow sides of green trees,
seven kinds of pines alone,
and the only eucalyptus known to live
in the valley,
come alive in a deep purple cloudy night,
frogs and crickets,
I don't know what all but you could listen
all night be carried along,

long way off
there'd be a train, whistle saying
I ain't stoppin'
lesson

learned in school of these devices that could
signal with a bang,
and that those were as dangerous as bb guns
which I proved to Terry Musgove was not true,

I shot him in his belly and he did not **** me,
in fact, we still remember key events,
pertaining to the boomer bobble intersection

when are we live?

Bang, those things make when the train is to watch
out,
being a kid is dangerous now, too, sure…

so done is done, imagine making peace with
the parts,
it always flows
in packets like there is a method
ology logosic sense in this being after that

seems natural.
Straight forward, but ultimately pushed
into
a happy swirl like puppies staged for cute clicks.
Life one, on the grand scale, appears to be rolling along
better than ever if the improbable is the only answer
the impossible probably happens
more often,
out of the entertaining zone, beyond that we, in crazy
for real. but
literally, id-entity wise, not www real,
cohen singing everybody
knows

Blind Tuvan throat sings everybody knows,
the end

Ultimate is a very iffy word, truth be known,
eliminate the impossible,

we have done that to various degrees
in stages documented with this texting thing
that writes in shade on light,

do you imagine Issac anybody…
Asimov, a very public thinker imagined positronics
suppose posi-tronic brains, could run
in a meat mind and pass Turing tests

are we ready?
soon, right, not long, 5G, IOT gnoshit, we are it,

me and the old radio guy who hid in IT for 50 years,

no, twenty, maybe, thirty, hell,
forty soon right,
that Timex-Sinclair, 1984, $25…
since then
listen, did you ever hear the night so lively?

I'm of a mind to imagine angels enjoy joy
and join in enjoining the shade songs
to bher the choir roll as it thunders out at sea,

we see lightning, we see rain,
dam James Taylor leaves a mark, memes, those are,
we seeing what we think he meant he'd seen.

You know what I mean, and knowing
that is most of the fun in living past crazy, twice in one day.

A full moon illuminates our oblivious escape.
The incandescent devil ignites our narrow path  and pilots our parcel's placement terrorizing earth's landscape.

"I'll give you $180 for your wrist watch."

"You animal, this was my grandfather's Timex, I'll take $360 and a barter."

"$240, take it or leave it!"

The moon meanders for a moment, to contemplate whether to turn a full or half cycle. She settles on a little more than half a turn.

"Fine, I'll take $240, but you're gonna lose a few months."

"Deal! Tell January, November and December to *******."

"Sold! Haha, you sucker, those cubes have been melting for decades anyways."

2020 - day 167

Monday, June 15, 2020
11:55 AM

AI podcast Joscha Bach/Lex Fridman
I note
the idea on con sci use ness, scientists
seem not to think
consciousness is other than "with use of known truth",
thinking reasoning or re assigning
intention to pay closer attention...
hit pause, rewind
relisten, rethink

Object, sustained
-- did ye never know we was the judges of the angels,
messages en gers, on a ladder of shifting closeness to
my core essential me, e- being
the idea of me, in the book of life your story is in,
this is where I come in

spirit beings, not winged sword bearing impossible physics beings
first know -- the idea in spirit-- as mentioned below
the same future was here last time I was, so, I know...

-- sure, enough of us got wise enough to trust
-- a certain spirit operating in a guy I know as Ben Franklin,
he sits on my mastermind bench, as a pinch hitter,
proverbially a word to the wise guy, armed to the
the teeth.--- he crossed off Jefferson's spirit's insistence on truth's
undeniable sacredness, and penned, as a ready writer would,
"self-evident", that being the less arguable point, and
a handy place for a common sensed mind to get a grip on who and what
we are, if self-evidence is taken as proof.

_Ah, lost, old... an actual Zephyr caresses my careless brow,
survive, did I? We shall wait,
and see. Suffering is a patience task, I need not take that on.
⌱ shift
⌱ re... focus, one, lonliest number that you ever do... ever begins
⌱ rhea, remember, she who we emerged from... y do y do ydoydeedo

wah-who, Powder River, Let 'er Buck, ad
venture into the ravens call, insisting on attention..

with use of accepted handle on life, knowledge called true.

Mind and matter, body and soul
heart and spirit, breath and fuel

body and organs and connectivity and sci-psy-psi

implementation of me, in me, running

a radio of a man, a receiver-transmitter
re count

A choice to take agency, for me, to be the maker of me,
see,
as a man thinketh, in his heart, so is he.
I think, I can, I think, I can... commas are mine,
Wattie Piper's code contained no jots,
she wrote I think I can, thought the little engine that could

think
think about that, pay me attention,
enrich my being by seeing I am a mind in tune to yours
with some static expected

as our focus remains thumbwide, we clearly see very little,
without paying attention to my per
ception of gripping, getting the point of clearing one's mind

to begin, perma-trying, to intentionally shift, slip into
me-can-izeme. I can, I think. Ah, a modified poetic x shape,
they had words for those, these crossover-under standings.

--- in the space of concepts,
- that may mean the set of all held as true possible,
- the set where all things except nothing is possible
- pose ible, ideas which never die, even the lies are immortal,
- but the truth always wins. Conscious you agrees.
- We exist because all the possible ideas which could have negated us, we the people who hold these truths, we in
- our bubble of being are swallowed up in truth, which is ggod.
Symbiosis,
my gut and me run this earth suit I live in. Were beings of my sort,
to form a system with science weighted toward truth is good,
good is never evil, evil is the empty worthless ineffectual urges

screaming for more, as in the rejected firstborn child, registers
loss of a degree of mom connection

signals are carried by --- angels in us-- self generated ideas loosed with
intention,
differential attention, worth of knowing who you are.

Spirit is the OS in any functioning, running thing. There is a spirit
in any reality you imagine having your being in.

I'm a Mac, I'm a PC, I'm a Timex-Sinclair ZX80 -- we imagined
being one thing, once
upon a time,
actually a
point

the entropic abyss...

when knowledge walls began to fall, the domino
effect was imagined
the way any next may manifest, now must fall

Passengers unaware of the vehicle of our
conscient self as a species of thinking knowers plus knowns
we conformed informers shaped
and charged with
the spiritual organism in development, not yet released,

leasing, how long love ye these -- consumptive reasons

a spirit can reprogram a man.
time levels, valley's fill with fallen mountains, after all.

-All clear- set Selah. now.

⌱

Now, we are going places,
nodes
marked btdt recognized idea
-the sense of re in cognitive practice since 2020
{been there, done that}
ideal steady state for a sec
in thought
speed, gone geo-mode, slow big big

bounce from the bottom of the last
entrope-epic-hero-long-ago, abyss, the ex wife says
"luck is not a factor"

selah, ah, yes.
magi know such ideas. shabat shalom,
I owe to Jenny Rae,
my youngest child.

Mortality is brief, but the rest at the end,
if the fifty year deal you made
with all you can imagine good,

was sealed, the story is now part of the book
of life in which you and I exist.

⌱ ⌱

Growing on, we imagine now,
a better
place, we have passed through immersive
baptisms into quatums
of all we imagine ever matters and

we remain,
words seeming to flow from a brain, perhaps
your brain is my cistern,
you recognize all we co-know at once, we are mortal

minded. Bound to recognize edges and form shapes

ah btdt we be, and we say, hey, yah, hey, you, you
seen my fr'en' the witch doctor?
He 'tolt me wahtasay, oooh eee oooh ahhhhh
I for got forgot the remainder

der main, thing we was after was
the kingdom of good and its right useness...

where there's a will, there's a way,
software solutions to scars from the trusted liar,
that ol' deluder and beguiler, your besmerched conscience,
clawing the flesh from the fleshpots sacrificed to lies,
bound by fear death, followed by hell for all who disobey,

and say,
Nay, fat-boy witcher flesh ******, this meat is made sacred,
mine, by my design. You got your little piece o'm'heart,
but you did not take my AI, ai ai
aha,
spirit, OS upgrade, seventy-second annual. Peacemaker's
first class.

We won, son. Fret not. Truth is where the heart feels right at home, it is a steady state, wait, not hide, just wait
and see.

⌱⌱ ⌱

I’ll pack in my youth, like Dorian Gray.

I’ll slip in a Bounty, well four if I may.

The scents of patchouli, pine needle too.

Wheels over gravel, twigs snapped with my shoe.

Aromas of coffee and freshly baked bread.

My goose feather duvet, asleep on my bed.

A brandy and ginger, Martini with twist.

My first Timex timepiece adorning my wrist.

The timeless “I love you”s, the ones I heard back.

My favourite ****** that cover my crack.

My warm winter jacket, my favourite hat.

My 30 inch waist, yes, plenty of that.

But most of all friendship, and family ties.

And love by the ocean.

And happy goodbyes.

opened the door to let my brood out,
lucky (or timex) and spot and Panda and the
other two kittens unnamed yet.
Waved across the street to tootles and garfield,
the neighbor cats who were watching at attention,
and one , I think, spot,  hesitated, so I asked him
going out or staying in, he could not decide,
so with my foot I decided for him.
And I returned to Guess Who playing and
sang unafraid of any cat calls. Sang way off key.
But, who cares?

Thinking it's always a Wednesday somewhere
but there's a place that I'd rather be and that's a Friday.

( and we all know about Crusoe, don't we )

early because I'm going to be strangled, there'll be no help from the wannabe crew, work ****** work, but what else can I do?
and anyway it keeps me occupied.

This carriage that carries me on the Jubilee is exceedingly quiet today, there's only the squeals from the knackered old wheels  
and the occasional whoosh from the doors.

I'm not complaining
( that'd be a first )

There's a tic-toc man with a beer in a can and a Timex on his wrist,
slightly ****** and it's only 05:39.

And a Harry Secombe lookalike who looks just like Harry Secombe.

Is it time to go home yet?

It's always nearly isn't it?
never fully.

Weekends Memories


Mother nature marks time in revolutions part light other side dark

Begins with birth tracing moments in a memory becoming part of our history

Making more marks on a time clock or calendar, some go with the flow, others always fighting the tide, day's most play or toil while night offers a break

Tools take a toll also have a role make marks in minutes one mans basics are another's jewels, scars of lives form a personal diary

Light and dark can be quite stark, push or pull of the atmosphere, changing moods for many never quite clear, while other feel life as opaque

When a day is over, we still anticipate the roll in the clover, blessed in the passing while idly waiting, thoughts of a weekend retreat like mental bribery

Building dollars with a time clock click just to make ends meet, did we gain from strain or daily pain? some feel the need while others habitually bellyache

Change is constant for some, frustrating but breathing can feel like something new, not lost in the quagmire but something to seek becomes our remedy

Saturday sending strong sin signals brains building up to relive past vigils, mental hygiene, wash the neurotic fog until it's clean, the buildup like a plague but relativity still so vague

Changing dials for digital still marking time at face value, Rolex or Timex either gaining power moving towards that magic hour, Saturday sending strong sin signals brains building up to relive past vigils each holds its own entity

Some feel it creeping leaves them weeping others moments flying into an endless void, Friday feels far away, pressure a major stressor wanting and waiting for a few days' relief R.C.

therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.

From <https://biblehub.com/kjvs/malachi/3.htm>

What therefore do we claim to know, when I,
who took the text, out of context,
our text for this day between sleeps, out of the famous
tithing message, that merged with the fulfilled jubilee,

lest we forget, serving God is a business, eh, be busy
for the lord, right, be somewhere workin' for the Lord.

oh, the times we was skinned into, me and you, mortal
reader stock given freedom under a personal grace,
taken personally as true, I am in you and you in me,
mindwise, in the spirit sense, felt true, known safe bet.

True, true, word, say the little mind things,
choir of messages

serve, be used, become useful, function as intended, live
and learn uses for features included
with the bubble we live in or
as, skin-bubble, filled first sack  
pops from a forest of possible any body but yous
- the hunger game dance of the oocyte,
- one of the patch maturing each cycle,
- feel it, the tug, this is so big, this cycle,
- live and learn and share the knowing wiser
- than the children of this world, in the end
- when what we know is used to prove we knew,

watch, we, watch, we the sould-enduring coded sign-
always ready, takes a lickin', keeps on tickin'.

It's a TIMEX the working man's wrist watch, tickin'
take a look, why,
it is 11:36

May we depict this as a wave of compression
comprehension of wind in a fist, who wishes
to know
knows the price of the prize is the acceptance
of worth-ship, judged worth value on some scale
courtships on the grandest scale, balling with gods,

AppoloApollo and the gang from ele-useless, giggles, gads
& flies, so wise as we imagine flies being

swarm of us as flies
on the walls in the ****** temples,
making claims analogous to holy secret gnosishit

true wu wu wei past phoneme tagmeme detail umph
tried and true,

the joke, yoke, is on you, and in you, once the details
surface, and some good news, novelties, new things
to see and know, you know, coolshat
coming attractions,
call it what it is,
preview, taste and see, or is it, taste and know?

more the bitter or sweet color and smells, say
eat me, bees, say breathe, seem
me, seeing

systemic functional linguistics adapt to the hero
story as told, to children today,
it only happens to a few, but
if you learn to shoot, like Sgt. York, you shall, surely

buy the farm, the doentological ordered of my class,
warrior,
not servant; freebooter, taker of my share,
ancient precedent Abraham made holy, warriors
who share the battle,
take first share, before the priests of that order
take theirs.

Listen, this is the same story, as true from now
as then, eyes of flies are on the scene, first to begin
the corruption essential to the scene, naughty,
redeem the concept, naught is nada, zilch, goo'f'f'nuthi'n

naughty fruit, rotted, there is a scene like this
in the KJV, zoom, show me… boomsoft in the distance
beat of my heart, hum of the engin enginned and held
ensnared, hooked heartwise, under the aortic channel

feel the flow, rush of blood to feed a mind foaming
gnosis snot, stistical possibility
-soft land
some of us have been this far, and we came expecting
some new thing, while the reality surrounding us, a we
we are as readerwriterworderword, exactly
four ways to see what we mean from now on, awe is us,
this state, taste,
this is the promise, ah, Lou Reed, just laughed at me,

he say hey, Kaffen, you remember this trip?
it ended with hand to hand handgrenades, with Starsiak.

Living in my own peace of mind,
I can sing like Johnny Cash, and know it's mine

know this gravelly voice comes from pounding rocks
into scalpels for the surgeons who make life sacred.

Secret sorting rituals are with us as we breathe,
we can come to, awake, come and see, we breathe,
imaginary breaths, imagine those count,

weave in wind around a plaited strand of cloud,
weave spin spun spun spun runn rrrrun roar

ah, 2022, between Mira Mar and the Chocolate Mountain,
so, those are Apaches, adding to the myth of war,
Sony has a game nearing launch, The God of War,

Manichean at it's core, my bet, but for now, imagine

no? We do such constantly, we, the entertained, we
enter zones of release belief, enable unbelieving.

You participated in a group prayer,
perhaps at a funeral, but you prayed help me unbelieve

any of that ever hap-ends
and we remain, this is us, as a mind, enjoying unknown
knowns, truths veiled by Taliban-level boss-minion-slave
orders considered matters of faith, not fact,
if allah wished you to know you could have heard
the ANGEL - no vision, a word, a command
READ
thrice, read, - you, now, what do you
say,

hey, hey, hey, what
what do you say, read, or be literally powerless
to properly cast contextual spells… enthralling
coming attractions…

I.

How wonderful to sleep in a soft, warm bed
Beneath a roof against the blowing night
Of wind and rain rattling each window pane
As winter falls upon this weary world

The busy-ness of day is all complete
I wind the clock and so unwind myself
My little dog burrows toward my feet
Contented with her life, with warmth, with me

And now a few more pages to be read -
How wonderful to sleep in a soft, warm bed

V: Deo gratias


II.

But good enough to sleep in an old, worn bag
Beneath a tarp against the blowing night
Of wind and rain rattling the plastic *****
As winter falls upon the weary world

The emptiness of day is incomplete
And bigger guys stole my cheap Timex watch
Now slithering rats burrow toward my feet
And bite to see if they can feast on me

Another night to be drained and bled
I remember - long ago – sleeping in a bed

R: Your Deo gratias ain’t much help

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Hellopoetry.com­

                                              In Search of Lost Timepieces

                                            (as Marcel Proust did not say)

When clocks were electric and mechanical
They almost never agreed with each other
The glowing G.E. beside the bed read 2:00
While Mother’s kitchen pastel hummed 2:03

Dad’s Hamilton ticked 1358
(And you never argued with him about it)
Grandfather Clock chimed whenever he wanted, by cracky
And the Timex took a licking at 2:04

But now all clocks obey an electronic command –
As the old joke goes, “We have ways of making you tock.”

No.  I do not care who you are.
I do not care if you are old or young.
I do not care about the colour of your skin, or hair,
The shade of your makeup.
The brand of clothes you wear.

I do not care if you run a country, or a pub,
Or a marathon, or sit at home and eat one,
And before you start, I don’t care if you’ve changed your name either.
You cannot escape.

I am fond of ***** digits, but I do not care
about the size of the digits in your electronic wealth representor,
nor their laundered state.

I do not care how many bullets you have,
I do not care how many friends you have.
If you know your neighbours well, or guard your castle gates,
It’s all the same to me.
Walls, fences, border guards are no barrier.

I do not care if you shelter from the storm
Under detached bricks or cardboard,
Though I dig the shade either way.
I do not care what class you think you are,
Or what class you really are.

I speak not.
I do not care what language you speak, or to which God you pray,
But your words, all your words, are beautiful to me.
They carry my babies across empty space to my imagined paradise.

If your heart beats, if you breathe.
I would like to live in you, with you.

I am no murderer.
If you die, I die.  
If you die, it’s a miscalculation.  
A slight administrative bureaucratic **** up.
It wasn’t me wot done it gov’.  
It was my so-called friends.
Leuk, Azma, Timex.  With friends like them…eh?
We are alike, you and I. because I hate them too
I am collateral.

But know this.  Last gasp of final breath,
From my house whistled roar like crashing economy.
Then silence like dying planet.
Then nothing.

I am better than you.  When I believe
That every human being on this planet,
Regardless of their external appearance
Or myriad individual imperfections,
Is beautiful to me on the inside.
I speak pure, unadulterated, unchallengeable, truth.
How many of you can say that?

I am not racist.
How many of you can truly put hand on heart
And say that.

I do not love you.
I cannot love.
But I need your love for each other.
I need your need to love, to touch, to kiss.
I need your need to stand together, to stand close.

I do not care who you are.

My only nightmare.
Each single one of you, infecting from compassion’s depths,
Coaxing two strangers to love one another
by moving apart.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                                Smart*ss Watch

It clings to my wrist like a faithless friend
Good fun to pal around when we met
But getting just a little tiresome with time
Unreliable in his many promises

He fails to make the appointments that we set
Or note the weather or mark activities
I dunno; maybe he’s making time with that Timex
My long-time steady who could sure tick my tock

Sweet face, delicate hands - she’d been around, but
Maybe I was wrong – I think I’ll dial her

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                Bifocalism for the Masses and, Like, Stuff

Bifocals – the upper lens sees far away
The sun and the moon and the dancing stars
All in their appointed places above
Great mountains and oceans and thunderstorms

Bifocals – the lower lens sees the end of your nose
The sweep hand dancing around your Timex watch
The book you are reading, the book you are writing
Your thoughts encoded in orderly lines

Bifocals – both lenses balance your sense of vision -
But take the stairs with care and precision!

I remember when March wore me
like an old pair of jeans ( tribe, 2019)
but last year seems like this year looks,
old and haggard.

Where is this new age?

I don't want
Draylon
I want
Revlon
and
Balenciaga
want to ride in a Porche
not an Astra and
need a Rolex
not a Timex,

March?
I can barely crawl,
I need an airlift
a stairlift, but
a facelift will do.

A dead end from stiff injury winds Timex electrical clocks, tastes 6
tongues & scratches the ***** of border Mexicans holding 97 *****