Friday, December 12, 2014

Octopi Galaxi

A Man sits typing
Host to a world inside
All he's found and created
But also that which creates him

Upon a planet
Host to a World of Animals, Plants, and Minerals
Turning through the power of Love
Through an Orbit as a unit before space and time

Within a solar system
Of Major and Minor Planets
As Major and Minor organs
Through their circulatory orbits
Beating the pulse of life, as well

While traveling as part of a galaxy
Around and around as part of an arm
Or node of life like a neuron in an Octopus
We seek out the world, distant, unable to grasp ourselves

As part of another pluralistic Universe
With major and minor organs
Circulating the stuff of dreams
Living, Learning, Loving, Laughing with it all!

And in the middle of this?

A blog created and found
With it's ideas flowing
And major functional parts Composed...
and mostly vanity and materialism
With only...
    it's good deeds following you to the grave.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Slumbering Campfire Songs

The Hills
Are sleeping giants
With veins in their matrixed Layers.
Up around heaven gods breath sweeps down
And layers clouds in the sky and ground

Underlow, annhilation keeps warm the mountains heart
And before that an arrowed river flows
Both ways with but one single past.

And my past
My past is my own future
Those sleeping giants
And mysterious lands
So quiet as I listen to their still
And beating hearts

I should take comfort in their company
I should hike and explore
Work harder, heal faster
Plant more

But it is winter
It is winter
Wherein most things sleep
Or conserve their energy
A little more towards what's necessary
And less towards delusion.

Friday, December 5, 2014

If Toy Guns Were A Victory

In an electric economy
We dream of the big play
A strike of a lightning chain
Come down and stored round
in some chamber underground

And with it, economy cycles
From product design to Landfill supply line
When we renew, reuse, and redesign
Both for simplicity, but safety
And maybe mobility and payworthy

How much simpler could hydrogen get?
It's split from water using electricity...
With propane synthesization.
Made from hydrogen and carbon dioxide.
For mobile fuel and direct action
Less intense than hydrogen handling.

But what do I know:
Easy to handle
Already usable
Easily made? trade secret...

Well lets say we have solar power
Running day and night splitting water
And with a small supply of cO2
Out spits a propane tank for you to:

Run that weedwacker and trim the hedge,
Fill a bus for the neighborhood kids,
And Autogas to get some groceries,
Or Cooking gas for your stove when you get home.

And yes it comes from electricity, this propane
From a solar panel out back with a couple of batteries.
Splitting the water and compressing the air
On a cell-phone-like tower of power near-by
Instead of over the county line, and far away, bye.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Rob Poor to Give to Rich

War, I see warr up North, War down South
And Justice being beaten caused he resisted arrest
Dragged to ground, and I feel hancuffed and helpless to absorb some of the blows
I see razing and raining down
On my friend Justice.
     Those who serve and protect is us.
We, who would pay some one else to do it.
We, because they aren't doing it right.
     Whitey isn't serving and whitey isn't protecting everyone...
Because all I see is war.  And war never changes.  But I would know Peace, I like peace,
Peace is all that and a book of poetry  supporting computer tablets.
Why, Peace is a beer after a day of too much excitment.  3 cheers for beer!
And Peace, Freedom, Equality, Liberty, and Justice
Are all being raped in the name of Security.

Why? because he isn't serving and protecting.  And I know this can be hard to swallow, but after whitey is done with the folks in Ferguson, he's coming after me... and then he's coming after, You!

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Another Free Poem

Christ's Victory over sin and death
Is not my couch, or fine machines
I tap on or carry conversation.
But freedom to find and/or create
Meaning and/or purpose in our lives.
Freedom from tyranny
Freedom from oppression
And probably freedom from debt.
Freedom from walled thought,
Freedom from railed opinions,
And probably freedom from slavery.

Through our boring 9-5 jobs
Mortgage payments.
Mowing the lawn
Cooking dinner,
PTA meetings,
Feeding the pets
Walking the dog.
Big shiny cars
Kids singing
Normal things being joys
And freedom from hate and war

Since when in my life
I must ask myself
Did freedom begin to mean, an escape?
Was it that day way back
I was roofing for my Dad?
Or was it the time I canceled cable
Because of all the ads.
Perhaps I felt trapped when I was in school
in the first go around from homework and debt
expectation and obligation and appointments.

Maybe that's not what you found; and
Perhaps isn't what anybody created for me.
There is the possibility better lives await,
Even me, more free, as rich or poor as you think me.
As stupid, as smart, as funny, or not
Ah Life: to survive, thrive, and not to starve!
If it is to be more than an escape,
But a freedom for us to live, laugh, learn, and love IN!

Friday, October 24, 2014


When time is worth something
You realize... you realize.
In this air of environmental protection
(or at least realized value)
We glue our eyes to squares of glass
And frame appealing nerve endings
To our institutions and past lives
Of unending curb and bank
Stashing away tomorrows sale today
And selling yesterday's dream
As something new, I hear say.

And in That library of Congress
What is gone today is silence
And the seeming eternity of a forest
Or praire that stretches on forever
Where people would swaddle babies
And Swat them if they were white.
Which originally was preferable, in those days,
To being exposed and left for prey of wolves
Or vultures, or even the common dog
With cats gnawing on the leftovers
All because Dad had little patience.

But we would work for things
Shinier than peace and love
So we might have everything in our world
Instead?  It would seem
When interest is the only thing free anymore
Where time is money
And speculation drives up the cost
of our everything peace.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Freedom Always

History beckons
us to answer questions
The echoing interplay
between light and shadow
balanced in opposite
with us in between
In the now, but someplace else
accessing the library

Reading about who won?

We did.  Because we remember
Our mistakes, and seek to correct
for better lives
and seek to preserve ways
that engender life.

Our lives, our love
Build a bigger house
For we would and can live
to learn from our mistakes

But the questions are often lost
The answers are often made
better, best, and better than
and questions remain, too
but in our memory
as some obscure need
or wire in the blood

Giants sleep with hearts
of Gold, stone, and silver
and where the worms sleep
Trees must grow,
and return their love
Of valley and city
which keeps off cold days
and colder hearts.

And if we should hate
out of jealosy or greed
May we both find better lives
in a bigger house
built of compassion or empathy
to shelter our soul's journey
through time and space
and find company in a good book or two, perhaps.

And learn from our mistakes
As others learn from history
for often our problems repeat
and more often than not... ourself the enemy
that causes any of them, and perpetuates
the discomfort we would relieve

We would seek needs and wants
for victory over sin and death
But if the point to life is to simply live
Jesus may have shown us a good way
in Answer to forgotten questions and oppressive solutions...
rescue then love in your heart and life and others
to find heaven in the next world
at the right hand of God, if you like
or beneath his feet, if you must.
For today is a good day to live.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

In Our Radioactive Days

If it is progress we make
In an industrial wake,
Thorium is the new coal
And Fusion the goal.

For progress is your peace
In worlds of famine and disease
Wherein all cancers are treated
Better, with better radiation treatment.

It is progress that brings
Simplicity of phablet machines
and electricity to free us
in doing what we need
as we continue in search for fusion
with z-pinch drives and ocean profusion.

The promise of LFTer designs
processing waste of past nuclear mistakes
The actinides that will outlast the human race
And to our boon can produce useful pace

For life is about energy, progress more-so
Where can we get it And what to do with it if/when we do
And we're actually pretty peaceful in our resource wars.
With more gerrymandering happening than counting scores.
Until it is scarce, then peace is scared And scarred
to visit the troubled waters of one blue planet.

How common is coal?  How common is gold?
Uranium is as rare as platinum
While Thorium produces as much
And common enough in our waste products
Mining the self-same minerals for wind magnets.

Where then is closing the loop
If we do not process nuclear waste
If we do not responsibly mine plays
If we haven't the energy to get to work
If we do not...
There's not much doing, going on
Where fusion may be the Hope,
Fission is the Faith,
And Charity I leave up to you,
In our radioactive days.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

My Bad

Stop the lies and realize
You are keeping yourself from life
Where the leaf turns
And echoes in your mind.
Season the hour more than any glint of light
From window or sky.
The shadows are gone,
Payment has been made
Through duplication and piling up the gold coins
That were stacked, bu now pile and pushed into coffer.
The doubt lingers, a fear, a dread
But I drown that
In sorrow saved from sleep and dream
Of the moment.
The very small moment saved and rectified
Through both sweat and savings.

But we are human, we are as weak or as strong as ants
And soar higher than eagles, too,
In both making amends,
And in that of making.

What it is, I wouldn't know.  It's been but a year.
A year of making poetry?
More than likely, I've painted so very little this year.
Yet 12 have passed.
And now one full year realized
A peace welcome
A ration sustaining
Of transient order?
Or of fashion from the mind of the cult of the comet
That Haunts me, this new October.

It isn't golden.
Nor transformative.
But a making isn't ever, lest your the King of Siam
And just totally treading on dreams like Yeats
Shredding it like Bukowski
Fagging it like Whitman or Ginsberg.
But what is gay for shiny happy people,
Ah, to be a yuppy, I know not.

That dream died in my lap when
I chose to walk twixt duality
And fall, as light falls,

Down and around amongst the 10,000 things
That is life.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

After the Lacuna and the Lagoona

The Godhead
Trust it
For it is thee inspiration of Nature
That flows through Universes
Speaking volumes to the turtle and hare
Bound up in the annals of time
And perused by every generation
Since the big-bang.  At times creative,
And others restful
Nature in all its diversity: liquid, gas
Matter and spirit: trees, fjords, glaciers and temples
Palaces, castles, tents, and mobile homes...
Speak in tongues inaudible
But louder than the robust echo of stars or coffee

Where then is this that gives voice to Nature?
It is your competitiveness, that takes it for anything.
It is your humanity, that gives it anything.
And it is inspiration that would learn this,
To fly amongst glowing balls of gas scattered and rarefied.
If you don't believe me, just look to the One!

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Are You So Very Innocent

I'm a sinner for writing on the Sabbath
I'm a sinner for having a cigarette
Or I'm a sinner for mixing the lemons life dealt me
With someone who's been dealt Vodka
It matters not I'm going to hell Seven Ways
A Million if you count all religions, past and future
But know this,
It's going to come out okay in the end.
We'll get there

After Receiving Caribou Hardback

You and I can not help but grow
If my belly is not growing fat-like
Then my wallet is growing buddha-like
Or my ideas take on weight
Else my name grows like Jabba-the-Hutt's pedestal

I'm a tree and can only store sappy ideas.
Seven years saved up after seven years to
Replace seven unwanted famines, It is predictable.

Unless one is a space cadet watching worlds turn,
One never knows when one has nothing and wants less.
For it is our destiny to grow fat and grow tired of bending.
Some just like to get there a little early
And others are willfully ignorant.
While others groom it, adding twelve ounces around the belly
Six ounces around the thighs, an ounce to their fist

Buddha went all out, and parlayed with death
So that his ears, too, grew fat.
And Jabba, he spread that shit around like he was sexy.
But both Jabba and Buddha dwell in the darkness
That reaps the silence of unused light.

But at least Buddha could have walked away, and walked it off
Which he eventually attempted, but never made it home.
His kingdom met him half-way, and the starving artist died
Then and there after a great banquet in the hills, outside.
While Jabba died a movie-star.

Picture in C Major

She got a picture.
It wasn't fully framed
It wasn't anything
A weird twisted tree with some fog drifting
And mountains in silouhette, blue and cloudy
But it wasn't you.

And now I may forget you were with.
That we spent that time painting and picnicking
Talking about our lives under sky and amongst weeds,
During the moments of our lives

I will remember that in my VR diary
I will remember that in my mind palace
I remember the sharing
We made for the picnic.

It was always the picnic
No field in fog nor twisted memory
This is another
But a silent echo of the food, folks, and fun

Friday, July 18, 2014

If I Could Be a Home for Hearts

Inside the tree is the savagery of the world
Inside of a tree is also the world's hope and peace
It sits quietly out my window in wild orgy
Never quiet, yet never quite loud enough to act somebody.
It Stands.  I sit, and contemplate
And slowly it draws water from my pondering
In minute scrutiny it appears to be a machine
Grandly though appears the model citizen
And on human scale appears to provide nutrients
As a marketplace for shade, oxygen, firewood, topsoil, and perch
While industrially greening worlds for ages gone by,
And competes for a living as all wild things do.

Trees, little do they do
And little do they not do
They bend in the winds and rain
With roots deep in hell
While their crown resides in heaven
And home for many birds and squirrels, too.

The Meso Harmonic

Maybe we don't need the microscope
Nope, too small to poke
      The dead thing with a stick
Maybe we don't need the skycraper
Papers are always saying
      Empires come tumbling down
But what we need is a working love
To drive our industry for competent markets
In a competitive world with a sustainable love.

Man can climb a mountain with no legs
And tame the wildest tree
Our cats and owls protect the garden
While our lives simplify me.
The smoke has escaped the electronics
Moore's law breaks down
While Colossus at the harbor
Has long fell into frown

Maybe our problem isn't the robots
Maybe our stars aren't the cross.
Perhaps illusion spells the disconnection
With Karma splitting good from dross

And on a human scale of things
Love makes the world go round
Take stock in what you need
For we can feed from sustainable Upcycles
      Beyond Outrage of climatic changes.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

If Useless Wonder Were to Visit

I am the son of a step-child myself an orphan of the world.
It matters not that much he, my Grandfather, lost his farm
As my Dad lost a father, as I lost a living in subsequent transubstantiation
We already know history repeats itself, as life repeats itself
Both in manner and in form
A square house has square rooms with square T.V.'s

The birds are of a tree upon a mountain.
And each has a stream of flowing and connecting
Them and you to life, learning, laughter, and love
Together so strong one might think a mountain grows
Or a tree brushes wings against the wind
Or a mere chickadee sighs like a giant in the silence of winter's crushing slumber
     But to see that in a mountain's feathered bough silently crying in winter
          A wilted rain of survival.
But to see that connection of repetition of space as well as history.

Exhibit  V displays we have four fingers on four arm-like fingers
And life would be a game of seek and eat if our heads weren't as useful
As our thumbs.
While at the same time, if our heads didn't find or create meaning and purpose
We might lose opposition to all our hopes and dreams as well as the hope
We might grasp what we need.

For useful and useless as it is, I continue to swim in an ocean of air, flying nowhere
While Earth itself will drip into the next vector of empty and useless outerspace.
Our lives. learning. laughter. and love, when together
Enough to use head and thumb to better our lives,
Useless and wonderful as it may seem sometimes.

Talking About Problems

I would not inherit garbage
For I, too, am not insanitary.
And even those that are, insane
Are not to be blamed for junk jeans
Transcripted and weaved improperly

It is we that are insane by thinking
We perhaps are above such monstrosity
As simply wearing holey jeans.
But I'm left wondering
How to swim apart from all the complexity of worlds
When problems are garbage.
And problems have overwhelmed even the soundest minds.
Unless we call for help, and with help
Some still suffer in silence, unknowingly
        To the fact
               Their problem isn't real.
That it is the narrative by garbage,
             Telling them its problems.
And so slowly inner ear turns gold into quartz
     Till it is apparent, that is what happened
            And it is quartz that is our dirt
                     It is our beach we sun on
      And it is the bones of the world
Yes, this digital world, too.

Which all makes me think it is not getting dirty that worries us.
      But the angels and demons that are playing there, too.
      In the dirt, and the problems, and the garbage pinning someone
      For so long, they lose use of legs or arms or what-have-you
And have been eating whatever they could for a great lack
      Of a square meal in life.

It happens, the fish are dying
From eating that plastic you use to live a modern life.
But not your plastic, don't worry be happy
And live on to upcycle all the Williams Mcdonough in the world
to survive... beyond outrage of our problems.

3 Times My Mind, 4 Times My Soul

Which part where, I scratch my head
My Health here, My Wealth there
And should I apply my ingenuity?
Where does my accepted acceptance accept.
Ah yes, rearranged into tetrahedron
I must start anew, else it's all about you

Tetra fish begin to swim
I'll call that one Quora and this one Tron
And this third one is me as well.
Left confused if fused being is no longer measurable
Why and How are all three really the same.
Ah, then its just back to basics:
Oh, the Humanity!
Oh, the Industry!
Oh, the Markets!
Oh, yes, it's completely Natural
100 percent recyclable... inert and most common
Be our rock, Mr. Silicon Dioxide

Like lock, stock, and barrel
We unlock our doing for solar power
We herd our witness for peaceful lives
We fill our thoughts with propane
      Why by Jove, It's the Biggest Gass
              One can grow, while orbiting the Sol
And inside is this triumvirate which ended poorly
While the world squares it's love of simplicity.

Of Helios And The Stench of Propane

A scavenger hunt awaits in the forest
Teams compete for their list of necessities
But sadly, we might starve anyway
As a bear starves, constantly hungry
Eating bark if it comes to it, ahh
A fresh hearty meal of tree stumps!
The garden has a fence out back, but birds eat that
An the spirit of the wolf is not a so very distant one
No, that is the simplicity and truth itself
Purviewed but briefly as a plumbing drop
Of a pinecone from a treetop
Or pipework in the dark's backdrop
Of some circuitry and wizardry
Keeping fresh the fountain and spring

The birds patrol today the skies and morning
Organizing the days quest to quench the fires of bellies
They burn bright, and speak of opportunity
And chattering, the quest remains unyielded to fill their stomach
On the flesh of berries and insects.
Ah, but re-evolution that can eat plants!  Or just eat the sun for fuel...

In everycase we are humbled to a simpler life
And one perhaps as hearty as spying moose,
Whom says to hell with the scavenger hunt
Both simple or competitive.  Let us sometime branch
Deep into hell, so our boughs may reach heaven
Then we would eat sunlight, then we would live
A bit slower, yes, but at least given time to think
Ah yes, but it's been a scavenger hunt the whole time!

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Wild Growing I

What a wild competition in the flower garden
      finite time, finite space
      finite sunshine, till winter's grace
But a robin lands to seek among the lawn's battlefield
For piecemeal peace in early day
While trees race us for the stars embrace
Where we below the mighty pines blowing
Are grateful for shade while jumping to space
Out our infinite brevity in the eyes of mountainous gaze.

I know not what we touch more than a second.
Perhaps our hearts, perhaps our minds, perhaps our smiles
But whatever bird this crosses with whatever butterfly
Let it be a goodly one that rests waiting for your eye
And may it be dear to heart,
For the world is not for men or women, much anymore
But big beasts growl and and eat constantly in city streets
And even bigger trees than those one can climb in a resewn blanket of the sun.

Let us instead, grip again
     the daisy bending and smiling towards us while holding hands.

Wild Growing II

What a wild mutualistic city
Mushrooms grow out and up
As do trees and lawns, buildings and songs
While the click and the clank
Of wheels turn on.

No wonder people pack
     to get on down the road.
They always feel, think, and see, and hear
The city crying help me
        And to serve.
I can taste our thoughts too busy to be real.
Our lives too busy to lift burdens spaceward.
Our minds too busy to see ourselves.
And our hands too busy to really help even ourself
Until we are not busy, then we're too much like a turtle
To really get down the road but with help of a kind friend
Willing to buy you a drink
Wherein we recollect, remember, and forget what we sought
       the business of living, for.


Wild Growing III

What wild nutrition in the bazaar.
We watch like hawks while buyers chase the butterfly
Through the cobblestone plaza
Knocking over lemons, t.v.'s, and a great many things
One could actually take home and feed on.

Will then the carcass of the thing fill a bin or shed
Shoved into closet, garage, away in a pile of bones
Long gnawed by the rats and mice and remembered only
By the cats whom occasionally come visit from outside.

In the bazaar there is a great many thing to see & hear, too.
People shouting, people playing, and puppet masters
Babysitting kids while parents take turns in fortune teller tents.
And all the gadgets and doohickies, lemons and t.v.'s move to stand
On head & hearts agreement of our hunger.
But we are always hungry, and we must think of something
Because life is too short, and even shorter without bread & water.

And having long known that
     keep ourselves as pets
             and keep our pets as kings and queens
For we would live life as nobly as possible.

Wild Growing IV

What wild utility in our industry
It is practical magic that created machines and robots
All built from tools produced and applied by minds
Leveraged on beverages and fingers prototyping
In an opposable demonstration in fortitude.

A tree vertically scaled as a vine creeps to swallow willow
It is the willow wolf that hops to divine embrace
Of the sun's court which if placed in light
Spoils brewing anything for you
     but a bitter beer     or some spiced tea
           Too sour to drink without honey

But in shade is nice, in a peaceful shade nicer
Of park or preserve of tourist or homespun industry.
The industry of the mind put to sleep by bitter life
Like any rust will destroy a tool if left to rot in rain
as any machine or robot or lot of destiny.

What rusts plastic but sun
What corruption spreads in the unused and unprotected.
It is but itself, but an older self married to time, as a cancer will end all

Electronics then inherit, but dust will marry this
As rust must marry iron in another marriage with time
While resting
       as one might drink a beer.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Let the Dream Be Me

I'm holding
a little lab rat,
In his heart is courage
pumped to the strong grip
of his body on hand.
He feels, he bleeds,
but we have no regret
testing medications

What's his body weight?
How stressed out is he?
Does he intend to harm himself,
or others?

Matters not, he's not awake
or had a cup of coffee
We need our data.
"Beverly, he's not a pet!
He's a mountain lion!"
"What!? This lab rat.
Cool, it cool man!"

We're being scanned again

by the black helicopters

Who's watching who?
in markets run amuk
Who's working who?
in this giant machine
producing miniature examples
of the same machine,
to colonize what it finds
with examples of itself:)

A machine replicated to nano-length
extracting money, power, respect
till one day we can send
someone to the galactic core...
It's expensive, you know,
checking one's galactic e-mail.

The Devils and the Saints

The devil will convince
1. they don't exist

2. that YOU'RE paranoid,
or you're unhinged,
when in fact we're wild things
being domesticated
and experimented upon

as a lab rat
to prove this or that
about long term effects
of neuroleptic medication.
through the strong arm
of the saints

While the watchers wait.

We would cure ourselves
of the emotional condition
All the napoleonic complexes
and Joan of Arcs talking to God
We would cure ambition
for I am not an unwilling
in the grip of a narrative,
remember to have mercy.
Call me up,
I'll discuss this idea

in trying to cure
the mentally ill...

and left uncontrolled
is our Jedi tendency
to feel a disturbance
or love in a worlds
But it takes choice

For it is a choice
to be happy, unless
one is clinically depressed

For what would happen,
if life threatened,
we were reliving
an amusement park.
So we focus
on the weakest links
of the Good, the Bad,
and the Ugly

And paranoia is a thought
or it is an emotion?
In fact is it a want
residing somewhere
in consciousness,
a knowing we are
people of interest
like a radio,
by society at large
all those eyes turned torwards.

We do have our ourselves
but simply
we know not what we can't see
of a brave new world.
We simply do not know

as I do not know
who the devil is
or I don't want to believe
there is a damn thing
I can do to find out

If I had to guess
the devil is like
the illuminati
The saints are
creators of DSM-V
the watchers
are Mobb Deep

such a mess
this market
this nature
this industry
this humanity

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Touch With Ones Eyes, Feel with your Mind

The Door to Perception
Is a Fact
But let's relax that
and see the butterfly in a cloud
or the squirrel in a tree.

I crawl up on my porch
and nibble upon the choir music
It's in Russian, or is it
it seems hauntingly Human
with thought behind mask
Their eyes show who they are
and what they recognize in you
and what they say lingers and reorganizes
as each long drawn out syllable changes
into new door of perception.

I grasp, but I cannot reach the radio
I can see it, I can feel it but I can
can but touch, just barely brushing now.
I lift it up, but it has not moved.

Where then am I now
How is it I can fly in my dreams
How can I cry at betrayel while sleeping.
The mind grasps, it touches, it feels, weeps
regardless of my keep... locked away as it were
as no rare metaphor but that of imagination.

And so as that squirrel nibbles
and the butterfly sweeps across the sky
slowly pushing out into 3rd Street Brewery Front
the Russian choir on the Radio
speaks in broken English
about how glad they are to be on the radio
as Jack Pine interviews them with weepy mustache
and green eyebrows, having just got back
from the Fall Carnival and Wine Press Festivals
Each of which he flung in with the locals
to raise a fun time.

But the Russians did not grasp the English
the Jack did not get straight answers
And the radio remained playing wide open
As before the squirrel started nibbling
as before the butterfly soared
as before when you were young
and convinced the the shadow of the coat
was an escaped convict there to rob,
but it wasn't was it, and so you forgot.

Beyond, that, what is remembered is in your heart
with all the love and laughter of lives before and after
Open your heart I would say, and dream a little
for imaginations play is perhaps the only way
to pass through the door of perception
Fact is, Facts are half myth,
and the other half, but a fact.
In light of that, where then resides
your imagination if it is real enough
to touch the sky or travel space
or grasp the high mast of a sailing ship.

Your imagination remains where it has always been
right behind you, a little out of sight
but reflected in each piece of glass
meeting your gaze in ways you can see past
and through to the years at last-
    in youth and old age, we each choose to be aware of
as much as we like to be, of the world around
and yesterday, and three days past the camera lens
                         of actuality.

Turn slightly your attention to these prized words
wait a sec, then reach out and touch with your eyes
and feel with your mind the laced message
we have but imagination to undress, caress, and love
indoors of perception.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014


How can it be over so soon?
The ending has begun?
or is it,
the engine has bedun?
My life has never been my own, I know
but never before has it been so much so.
I feel the pain of mistakes
as I feel the joy taken away.

I wallow, that just now that I can see
my sight might be taken from me
And pining,
I gasp, pine air.
Bespeckled with stardust
I wonder what fairy land
would harbor souls next
if this world were to go tits up.

Would it be the Policeman crying
or a Man in a high castle?
Have the facists won, already
and we're only now being informed by the oracle?

Perhaps young Atreu will save our lands
Or Frodo will yet throw the ring into fire.
For trouble certainly lies ahead
in the complications of big business
and deregulation become widespread.

Is there no more Mount Olympus
from which Justice strikes with sword and might
Have all the judges become blind
by their spouses political insight.

I know not the hero in my heart
but for the heart in my hero.
And hope they all win
higher than the sunset;
and in hoping, create.

If She Were

is not he-who-must-not-be-named
No, she isn't
He is my fish
that dodges the light
with his deep black skin
And she, she shines
as definer of the box
life within which she contains.
And the two merge
when you see her swim away
into farther reaches of the sea
Like an old girl-friend or perhaps
the White Lady, demanding in her lips
and hips a tribute of wine and roses
if but the chance had not passed, already
and you, forgotten, or pursued to be forgotten
and wrapped up in warped old string
to be burned on the first
off-chance of spring

burned like the lie
cut from under the dog's tongue.
yes, no,
bitch that she was, will-be, is again
is not, nor ever has been
as she strings out her long line of ramps
chairs, blocks, and rings of fire
Bitch, no,
but ringmaster, yes
In this circus of bread and roses
to hoop through the jump of fire
I know not.
But when the concrete abstraction arises
will my hide singe
Or will I again sing
'you fool,' having been fooled myself
into the tempting embrace of dreams.

I know not what will buy eternity.
I know not what ails me, so.
But as I pile higher and deeper my own education
I have found this,
I have been forgotten.
And in this forgetfulness
It's like the devil convinced
the world he didn't exist
with but one maybe
and a tress of hair
brown now through the wear of time
that unlocks that forgetfulness,
not so you remember the devil,
but, have hope in yourself
that we can survive, thrive,
and not starve
OH, Great Media Star!
If I were to wish
make it this...

Something Blue and Something Remembered

Jon Butler Trio used to get high for a living
flying, crying, lying, crawling in an underground
ice palace just trying to get buy

But where's the life
in the Height
of the beasts mind
worming through mountains
like copper ore, crude
Rude boy, what cha doing?

Where's life without light?
Deep under oceans, suckling vents
smoke stacks and master plans
of only building up, like
under the sign of sulfur oxide
with the worms out of harm's way
till they decide to mine your life
using your ideas, in mining plays

Progress comes to all
it would seem, and always kills
when it feeds... others

From roads to headlights
coal ash to tarpits
concrete factories
upcycle maybe?
redesign, renew, regenerate

Take that dead thing
that Frankenstein creation
and let it save the world, somehow

Design the Frankenstein
and let it feed the world

A nut here
a toenail
a flow of joe
upcycled, into you know
something lasting
that'll fight off demons
and win you victory over
the enslavement of
crime, poverty, or ignorance.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Minor Opinion

If the fractal nature of existence
harbors life like a wildflower daisy
In due course realized, one becomes of mind
Everything Is Alive
as in the Frankenstein
creation of couches and fishtanks
lamps and tables and all mundane
But in the case of Life
And in the case of all existence
is that inclusive signs indicate

a fractal mutuality
is the sign of Life
In your life
our lives
everyone's life
from arms to fingers
from eyes to cones
legs and toes and toenails
with the grooves extending out
A feather from a bird
a Star and light
The Universe and Plight
A Human, a tree, and a skyscraper
We harvest the fluxing waves,
you can bet, with what's on top

an so can we can conclude
WE'RE the mad scientists,
and shuck this illusion of normalcy?
How can you be so damn certain a tree doesn't think
or a mountain lives
When they're both so different from anything
we've ever successfully conversed with.
They do....


And when God proves it to you-
will you be Listening or in shock
that you did indeed only rock
what you wanted to hear?
Only invested stock
in one's own reflection
as exercise of vanity
with money that is your body
with power that is your will
with respect to you.
Wake up.

come on.
Wake up

The machine is stripping our garden.

Monday, May 26, 2014

99 Illusions

Hey WildChild
What you listening?
What you doing?
What you witnessing?


We must not know
that both teams lose
on TV's lasso
of your mind,
while both teams get paid
playing the same game
Six times a week
In substitution
for the suspense of real life.

Many watch for the grace
some for the serenity of pace
Perhaps they watch for danger
to their bragging rights, face.
The cross is in the ball field.
The importance of it is you,
and the sacrifice,
                   one's life
as a testament to Jesus.

What have you?
Where have you?
when, why, how
Did you bring spirit
to the communion,
Or sip on it in the dark
like vampire suckling
an electronic Jesus?

Bread and the Circus
Think about that
      and the
circus of the mind
circus of the soul
circus of the body
circus of the city
circus of the bazaar
circus of the drama
circus of the clowns

we could go on, it's a zoo-
Otropical phantasm
of existence
and people will feed on humble fare
while dining with noble wine
loaves and fishes to this day
We've perfected the means
but lost our aim
as ballgames,

The television has united
the polarization.
Left stand lefter
And the Right, self-righteous.
as Saints and Vampires sort out
the Death Star
But we must not know
No real thinking allowed
No real witnessing
No real doing
What's real anyway
when facts are half myth
and what you bring to worlds
yearning for a glimpse of light
What is real?
99 illusions, and balling ain't one

Saturday, April 26, 2014

MPR News

Money, Power, Respect
love it, or leave it

Tools of the richer than you
whom treat us as fools

The Market trend goes up
as carrying capacity expands

With our children's domestication
indenturing the houses of the holy

With our own entrainment of dependence
upon the company store

With our own entrainment
for wealth accumulation

As a river cuts least resistance
the theory is we can pipe it to Los Angelos

Or is it Seattle, New York, Minneapolis, Omaha
where the rats and cats eternally battle

Over channel flow
for crops, drinking, product, and sport

And it is a sport to think the NYSE will always go up
when we start trading airconditioners as currency

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Judgement of Golgatha

Jesus was crucified
on a stick with 3 nails
To his left or right
was a sinner
and a repentent sinner,
himself, a dissident.

Jews daily ignore the law
they do not stone anyone anymore
they daily kill the palestinians
They forgo animal sacrifices
Wouldn't this make them the sinner, then.

Christians daily eat meat.
From their testament,
the reason for exile from Eden...
for consuming carnal knowledge
from the tree of knowledge.
And every month they repent
and ask forgiveness for being sinners.

Islam protests western influence
The world calls it fundamentalism
but also terrorism, because people die
and also we call it dissonance
or at least dissent
from a new world order's vision.

History repeats itself, so they say
What will be the cost?
For Jesus was not a Christian
Muhammad was not a Muslim
Their religion was Love,
And they turned that corner
to the benefit of all
hearts within Hearts.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Mountain Valley on Pine Street

My life like a brew pub
It seems I come and go
get drunk sometimes
and throw some people out.
I dislike it when people
sleep on me,
and I never quite feel at home
that I can't relax
because I don't intend to stay long
or am too drunk to know
from the intoxicated pails
being served in mugs.

The intoxicating pales
that are sometimes stuck
in their fermentation of bold ideas.
I get on a task, and then it just lapses,
it sits around being unworked,
unthought, unsought, and ultimately unwanted.
Perhaps I've celebrated one too many unbirthdays,
doesn't it sound?
Perhaps I'm the one stuck, you might ask.
Suppose I am and that I'm not.
Likened I suppose to having both pain and potential.
I'm both, and so much more.
Stuck in my habits, but struggle to have habits
and so the stucknicity get banished with a little air,
some food, and time to recognize I need to get a move on
chores and things that have been waiting
like the sugar that awaits the yeast
for me to decant futures
into new bottles of possibility
For tomorrow awaits with friends,
and possibly Love
and hopefully you.

And so in that brew pub
lives get explored,
moments get forgotten,
and the floor gets mopped occasionally...
but through it all
time is shared by people
whom need to know they aren't alone.

Monday, January 6, 2014


In the midst of winter
cold wind freezes the raindrops of yesteryear
so that when I cry, chimes
ring out loud and long
as dropping glass
upon the street I live on

Where did yesterday go to
when will tomorrow ever come
But I remember thinking these same thoughts
in yesterday
in tomorrow

So I raise my glass to you, and say
"make this your tomorrow,
make your day.. today."
For it is yesterday that will never come,
and lives are too short to chase after eternities.

Today is my birthday, a month from now
tomorrow I count my age, 38.
The hours count down till my death,
meanwhile I'll write another page.

And so the story continues
lives of another life
I may see you
between space and time

For we do not die as much as cry anew
we are not erased as much as forgotten
And in the places of time without space
We all may patiently wait and meditate upon grace given
without adieu