A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

Devoured by the intensity,
  words that quench the soul
an enchanting intoxication - -
    like a spirited ******
      whetting a voracious thirst,  
plunging in for another swallow
   of adoration's satiated ******

316

The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He’s a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?

If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—

If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—
With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay?

Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.


ELEETE J MUIR.

First Girl
When this yokel comes maundering,
Whetting his hacker,
I shall run before him,
Diffusing the civilest odors
Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.
It will check him.

Second Girl
I shall run before him,
Arching cloths besprinkled with colors
As small as fish-eggs.
The threads
Will abash him.

Third Girl
Oh, la...le pauvre!
I shall run before him,
With a curious puffing.
He will bend his ear then.
I shall whisper
Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals.
It will undo him.

Nothing intimidates me more,
Than a woman’s inviting smile,
It pierces right down to the core;
Appealing to everything I adore;
This subtle, suggestive, wile:
Whetting the sense of anticipation,
Igniting fires of the imagination.

Nothing possesses more power,
Than a woman’s determined will;
Disguised as a delicate flower,
Sweetness smothering the sour,
Regardless of the pyrrhic thrill;
Bewitchment in everything but name,
Savouring the illicitness of the game.

No ordinary man has a prayer,
When a woman stakes her claim;
She’ll welcome you into her lair,
Reject her desires if you dare,
Her revenge has legendary fame;
Travelling incognito: deadly intentions,
From this wrath, there are no preventions.

Do not ever, ever, underestimate.
That which cannot be understood:
Avoid the temptation to speculate,
Categorize, classify or evaluate,
The secret mysteries of womanhood;
Whenever tempted by an inviting smile;
Nod politely then turn, and run a mile.

© Paul Chafer 2014

Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar;  she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I      N      F      I      N      I      T      Y

Time stopped. I had no bearing as to who, where, or what I was. All that was in my presence was the high, rolling desert painted orange with that odd sand-mud that he called “Geonosian rock;” his ebbing backpack being pulled from his shoulder, just like the ocean tide; his canteen bottle, lidless, slipping out of the rear pocket and whetting the sand with the boy’s quickly diminishing water supply; and the boy, Davy, being torn helplessly from safety by the cool, malevolent hands of gravity, and into the crevasse.
Reaching out desperately for the boy’s damp, warm hands, I grab a hold just in time—to consciousness, as he plummets and I stare wondrously; dumbfounded by my own ineptness in rational thinking. the boy is gone. Davy, my own stepson, my ******* child whom I would do anything for to prove my worth to his mother, Mary, who was the token to happiness with a new family, was ripped from my grasp, and eaten by the New Mexican terrain. So I delved after him.

Some think about it
more than others,
their minds
absorbed by forbidden fruit,
hungry,
ravenous,
whetting their appetites
day & night,
fighting sweet urges,
lost in their
imaginations,
those close encounters of
the sensual kind
that everybody thinks about
(some more than others).

We got out of the ****** motel early,
while we still could,
before the rental car got stolen
or our room underwent dynamic drive-by refurbishment.
There was supposed to be a
complimentary continental breakfast,
but the coffee machine was broken
and someone had already swiped all the donuts.

My only frame of reference for Inglewood was that it was Sam Jackson's character's home turf in 'Pulp Fiction',
leading me to suspect it
probably wasn't a nice area,
although the fat ****** smoking outside
when we'd checked in at 2am
had seemed very friendly.

You were right about LA, about
how there must be a sun, but you can't
really see it, you just
sort of assume it's up there somewhere
behind the fog huffing in off the Pacific
and the toxic breath rising from the
city's gridlocked mouth.

We made for Venice Beach, because you
don't fly all that way and then not go,
us figuring ourselves early enough
in the grey, jet-lagged damp, to
avoid the junkies, the winos and the crazies,
the symptoms of America driving itself mad with
unrealistic dreams.
But they were already there, muttering and
shivering on sand and cement, some
under rags or cardboard,
just waking up in
spite of themselves.

A woman with the hungriest face I ever saw
threw a cigarette lighter at me, then yelled,
shaking in her filthy clothes, that she wasn't giving it to me, *****, FYI,
FBI, CIA, JFK... then
started screaming about Kennedy and all those lying ***** up on the hill.

The ocean ******* away at the land behind us, like it was
whetting its appetite for the day when San Andreas splinters, and the waves finally get to
devour
California.

The hungry-faced woman was still shouting when
we walked away, through the graffiti and
gangs of *******-huge, hulking seagulls.
If I'd stopped and tried to talk to her, if I'd
gotten anywhere close enough, I was
afraid she'd tear a bite out of my face,
and I didn't know what shots I'd need if that happened, and we didn't have medical.
Which was a shame,
because I'd have liked to hear
what she had to say about Kennedy.

We walked to where you'd street-parked
the car which
still hadn't been stolen.
On the way, some guy, a stranger
coming the other way, called you
'Football Dude' and asked you
to catch his neighbour if she
jumped off her balcony, but
I think he was joking.

Oh, and the car was yellow.

There is
a ripeness
          pending.
It stares at
me in the face,
          unblinking,
like an animal
ready to pounce.
It drinks in
my psyche,
             my blood
pumping
in its wild, tender veins.
It soaks up
the vitality
           clamoring
within me, like
a tornado
about to break force,
winds gathering
tightly under moonlight
a cosmic dam about
                      to burst.
It is a spell
cast into wilderness,
pristine and untouched,
yet longing for fulfillment
an undoing
of the senses
a subconscious unraveling
that journeys into
            unknown vistas
                with no map
Perhaps the
only real guidance
is each fine-tuned
          sensibility in turn:
Eyes taking in the colors
within pulsing electricity
as they merge
             and re-separate
into distinct tinctures
of luminosity  
Ears welcoming
the instruments
        of our bodies
as they writhe in tune
with acoustic passion,
hearing the cries of
wolf and owl whispers
          of trees deeply
reverberating into nightfall
Smell, to inhale
the muskiness of earth
the salt of sea
the crisp dusk of fire
and your pinelit, animal scent
                           familiar yet far
tracing me to you
like predator to prey
in magnetic vortex
  Touch,
                 to hold the
strands of my being
in place, steadied
by mahogany and silk
soft and solid at once
as the rhythms of storm
                 rock the house
And then:
Taste
to lusciously peel back
the layers of
             our essence        
letting them brew
in their own juices      
as they gather
  upon the tongue
in an effulgent stream:
sweet merging with salt
      pleasantly sour and piquant
with understanding
whetting appetites
in a sumptuous feast
         of enlightenment
that only shows us how,
in both primitive and
             ethereal awareness,
we had known this
was going
to happen
       all our
             lives

Roses are red
Violets are blue
And karma
Is gonna ******* too
It however may not be today
It may not be tomorrow
But before my final breath
Curls out of my mouth like a wisp of smoke
It will be granted
A Genie lamp rubbed
And the only wish used
Will be the taste of your marrow
Whetting my appetite
Into a frenzy
They always said
That revenge
Made a cold bed fellow
But I digress
Its hot coca
In the middle of my tundra

she annihilates me
within somber streams
of her eyes,
unclothing my resolve
layer after layer
laying bare my
want to taste
the flesh
of all life's sorrow;
licking the wounds
of her heart
as her elixir'd
brine drips, whetting
my penchant;
to suckle her
pain from
weary limbs,
collapsing
at her feet
as life forces
drain my essence;
awakening
slumbered state
of mind, I lean
into her silence
behind enshrouded
eyes; awaiting
in naked liberation,
unleashing imbibed
shyness that existed
within; as she gazes
upon me, acknowledging
my very existence
in her realm; to whisper
against me without
verbalizing her thoughts;
watching her evolution,
I sigh, gasping inwardly,
as if, she is newborn
from wombed
catacomb; a new day
emerging from
cocooned silence,
erupting into wanton
unabashed passion
as cognizant open-mouth
gazes unleash
untithered moans
of release;
no longer mourning
sorrow's, fore, new
tomorrow's has arisen

Welcome to Landfill where they bury your free will,
please
hold tight to the handrails we're all going in.

Passing through fallen arches past the smashed dreaming warriors into abandoned stone quarries,
taking time for a tea on the way.

Welcome to Landfill where they still fly the standard although at half mast.

Reserve a place for the saviour
he's playing a card game unaware that his fame has spread out like confetti and is whetting the appetites of Satan and his acolytes.
Here in dystopia where hope's hoping it's fooling ya the lights are being turned off one by one.

And so we begin.
Head bowed,
Pen poised,
Whetting words against the edge of a dictionary.

My heart is on a platter
in this large expanse
of banquet hall
strewn, festooned
with banners
on the time-stained,
whitewashed walls

My heart is on a platter
****** beats so red
contrasting the
bright-white tablecloth
so elegantly spread

It sits and claims its place
as its pulses
fill up the room
and the cutlery shakes,
reverberates
from its understated swoon

Napkins folded so neatly
Best china laid out fine
it oozes through the arteries
in crystal glasses
meant for wine

One wonders, as one gazes
upon the forks and spoons
                              and knives
laid out in rows
so properly…
Just when will they arrive?
And when they do,
those honored guests
will they be shocked to see
this beating, pulsating mass
that pumps out feeling
in endless, reaching streams

Like a delicately-cooked
animal, exposed
             with flesh so raw
this ***** keeps on throbbing
whetting saliva in the jaw
No apple stuffed in mouth
no need for garnish
or temptation
the heat's already there
even in this subtle
                 transformation
It's so slight,
the change
             perhaps obvious
a bit bizarre
but despite themselves
my eyes are drawn,
in wonder,
            to the stars

My heart is on a platter
almost cut in slices
                   paper-thin
now all that's left to do
is check
          where one of us
ends and one begins
Just take a slice
place it on your tongue
and let it melt within
Let it enter softly
your bloodstream
let it boil, let it soothe
no one can be one's
everything
but the soul's
                frequencies
might groove

My heart was on a platter
in this banquet of desire
but, to everyone's amazement
it has turned
to flames of fire
it billows up to the ceiling
sizzles like a steak
     and even though
I am reeling
I hold my ground,
                 won't break


See, I don't care what
they think
those diners
with wagging tongues
and fetid minds
   I grab your hand and we run
to the coolness of the pines
Looking back, we see
heartsmoke rising up
into the sky
in the colors
        of the northern lights
blinking in beats
like an ancient, mystic eye


And as you place your hand
upon my chest
where this heart
was once submerged
I so do not give
        one flying ****
when dinner
will be served

In the flash of June
I met saw a butcher
Whetting his knife
Against the thick twig;
And down in pieces
The corpses bled profusely!

cognitive dis
sonnance sonic vibration shaking
the core
of our age

constant hey, hey look this way,
walk this way,
talk this way

bitchnmoan
groan, big stretch intended

to en
velope volve gauge and me
asure real if I can make
my bubble gobble yours,
you're in mine,

your's popped.
It's okeh, I expected you.
I prepared a place, come and see.

you can't go on pre
tending to aim at invisible hope
for things you see, right here.

The end of any mortal moment
is always near. In your heart, you know.
The kingdom of God (a term yet undefined),

if this is a place,
this stack of lines your learning lets you read,
then this is your heart-felt happiest possible place,
sometimes
this is like heaven to you,
after all
is said, and done.

--- that's published ---
a seed
or a flower, or leaves of grass
as good for me to grow on as
any sacred cow,

chewinginging blissish backward belching
methane, to warm the wind,

to ease the groaning from below the ice,

chewing leaves of grass,
as in times past,
when fusions were being warmed

from industrial effort to make the Iron Legged Monster
trample the idea

of calming words easing pain as sure as momma kisses
always did,

when you thought, as a kid and could believe such kisses
evidently worked,
you felt un-pained, the kiss alone could be blamed.

Did you notice? When kisses made hurts go away,
was your attention the price
of the kiss or was it a switch clicked as the lips of another

touched your skin and authoritatively declared,
all's better, and this is the direction
the vector from one remembered kiss of this sort

epigenetic trigger cocked, then pulled

endurance of developing process patterns with all the pieces
scattered

laid out
before our eyes, asif
intended to be seen, pain,

pay attention. Sharp can be evidence of fracture or
proof that whetting the edge makes our shaping
painless on this scale.

Aim at nothing, imagine what you hit. High five,
one hand clapping,
one more way to see the sublime.

Rainfaring
Seminal beat, “.08 BAC
phosphorylating proteins
β-adrenoceptor viral
disease”,
He wheezed
In the driveway of
The wrong house
Cabernet Savignon
Telling him now

I wish for him meteorites
The horror of disastering
Interplanetary play
Setting him alight
With angel soot on solar wings
Soul whetting

“Today, we make a man out of you.”

  Was what I may have heard in the pitch dark, blindfolded, hearing a mechanical arm swing and in full force, smash my hamstring. I was made that day. And for that, I thank them not. I celebrate myself this way, in the full-turn of a dream.

   Was what I may have felt somewhere in Bocaue when Sonny brought me to a ******* in the middle of the night. They wore the same, seductive dresses in the crimson night. They had their flamboyant maquillages. Bodies like curved spoons. Heads billowing and airless, their hairs frozen, held intact on the skull. Their skin smelt of berries. Sonny took two and I took one for myself. How am I made that night? Never touched, never held. Fair enough, I disappointed her. Her name in the Filipino language is asusena. A man’s a man when you cannot fool him into the trickery of a device that does not appeal to him.

  Was what I told my nephew while whetting a switchblade. The grating sound made sweet music to his ears. He was intent and keen at observation. He just got circumcised because the much older, paunchier kids made fun of his boyhood. You are the wind, Calvin. He smiled as I maneuvered into the blank, corpulent space and swung around, pretending to stab someone in clear air. He lauded me and believed that I was a master at that – which he may not have seen, a master at pretending.

   Was what I may have noticed when you and I were in a cheap room staring at the white ceiling talking about cheap lifestyle. The nomad scent of your hair wafted, almost trying to describe the difference between inhale and exhale. To inhale was to take you in, and to exhale was what you do best. The word “****” lingered by the cold metal of the doorknob and the hinges seem to collapse in their trade of swivel. You were taken into the thrill of the void and I was caving in at the edge of my world. I wanted to kiss your beautiful face
                   but a man knows a device he cannot control.

           and  so
I     heard
      myself
sing      into   the wilding   air,
                        let     myself
                         diminish –

And why to be, for those who won’t see
a troubling mist, a blissful twist
the end was coming, the end was near
oh where the final mark did stop, ‘twasn’t clear

Spoke from the heart, heard from the soul
acted as if, ‘twere nothing t’all
he flew like an eagle, but thought like a tree
all well and good, his graces would be

How to finish, oh where to begin
ponders the reaper, whetting his grin
“don’t mind me, I won’t be long.
What’s given, got... ‘twas mine all along”

Beans and melons
He sung
He rung
From strumming chords
The bar, our Lord
Gravel on chalkboard
Verse by Verse
Whetting the appetites
Of the universe
Candlelit darkness
Our first and last quilt
Wrap me drunkenly
And so my will