national poetry month

national poetry month
Join in the Poetry of Life!

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

If Gasoline Lit the Brazier

The painting raised slightly while framed on wall
     I did not notice the frame, the paint
I saw the rarity of the outing
     Out and about in daylit grounds

I wanted to shake the hand, gaze the eye
     Of mankind whom perservered such devotion
I wanted a private meeting over sherry or beer
     With one pivotal person whom's frivolity was definition

We, my smaller family, had a picnic with the small bones, those paintings
     And having the soup made by sous chef
A small miracle happened or perhaps this was just apple sauce
     We had fun, and spent time outside our lives
          As one might spend time 9 feet away from painting...

Curious or fascinated or excited or exacerbated or rewarded
      By some singular artifact enchanted by hand
Never to be used up as long as it was cared for
      Our love is like that, and appreciated by those we spend time with.

And those 9 empty feet of space filled with air and conversation
        Let me reach the nine inches to the turning point
With enough room for me to accept this could maybe work out
        That after confusion, pain, loss... Life goes on...

Life goes on, and good things do happen, there is beauty in the world

Forces to Contend With

Do we awaken and step through said door
Do we weld our entrance and/or fix in past
Is There but one morn that makes all last

There are many turning points, many corners

Even on said morn, there are at least three or four on said door
And in rising, do we then ignore all else
Or perhaps continue on to heaven


These answers and more lie in creation
Many doors of perception
Many morns of awakening
Many painters of memory while pens create history
While swords are left to defend our necks and ledges of living

And when the laughter strikes may at least one cartoon bubble
Leave salt in the wound of tyranny

As song use to leave it deaf

Monday, December 21, 2015

When The News Spins Obstruction of Senses

Sometimes a little piece of me drops
Through into another place and time
Landing in a spot softer, couchier, chair
Where I turn on faux news of doom and gloom.

And there is not the world spinning
But one spinned world convincing of doom
But one spinned world convincing of gloom
Which doesn't fix anything, but frowns upon faces
For gather arounds of one boob tube's programming.

It isn't the end to turn off television
This is the beginning of conversation
It isn't the end to call it a lie
This is recognizing they commercialized
Whenever wasn't it?

With pipedreams and boob-tube feeds
It was the end of civilization on one-way streets
May we circumvent and yet still dream
May we invent and yet still keep all of our hopes alive
For yesterday was programmed

But tomorrow is a dream...
(Futures only ever have been)
Dreamed by you of fantastic possibility,
Of flying machines and miniature computers
Talking watches and 3-d picture shows.
Of test-tube babies and in-vitro creation,
Iteration machines and global communication.
Of digital pizza and high-speed delivery,

The world is made by nothing but dreams, one could argue,
Would you be so kind as to dream a little dream for me?
Would you be so kind as to dream of hope, love, and peace?

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Libido of Greed

The adventure spys a couple of peaks, the tool later breaks and digs
Passion meets and stores in keep nearly all the rest of treasured dreams.
Miners plays amongst the mountains, digs in streams.
Storekeep sells the tools and food.
Bankers save progression of nuggets gleaming.
Gambling takes place at the saloon.


While curiosity asks who's getting rich off this pay to play life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Lumber bought, store built.  A tool shed is born of second-hand items.
Gold brought, items shipped.  More business spreading in the spanning bottom.
Maybe glass is bought for display.

While wisdom asks who's getting younger off this endless sitting life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Vault bought, scales weighed.  A combination locks away pleasure's greedy exchange.
Nuggets weighed, guns hired.  More business spreading in the plump stocking.
Maybe corporation is heralded.

While liberty asks who's getting smarter off this deepening stream of life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Tracks laid, labor paid.  An engine dials up the golden and rushing play.
More found, more people around.  More business spreading in the old hat.
Maybe lawmakers swear oaths.


For nothing on this dirt inspires like refelective yellow earth.
Though tin a room with it, and one won't live long.

Friday, December 11, 2015

Row by Row

There's a farmer in all of us... We toil, we serve, we grow up
And want something in return. I want proof!

I don't want to till profits under
I'd like something wonderful...
More than money, more than manure to grow it.
I'd like typewriter to type this.
(and I have it, leaving me wondering... where begins me...)
Anyway there's a life, and I'm truly thankful I'm not one thing....
robot, or machine, or calculator thing

Because there's a little farmer in all of us,
We want paycheck, and privacy to spend it
The proof of work that I did...
And I SEE THIS... (and that)... (and this other thing)...
It's all around, da farm... with harvested field...
And field stubble grows cold, the snow, the rain... sleeping thing.
And low sun brings little light to plateau...

The field of solar power with but plants sleeping
The field of singing, hoeing, rowing, plowing, stowing
The fields of possibility which hold plateau's higher creativity,
Creativity of sorting choices,
Choices of flowing light.
Light of poetry that is and in and of and for... Life.
Perhaps as sprout grows and knows not but intuition and some signals of surrounding environment.

I am the farmer and the sprout.
I am a grower, too.
You are as well.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

On Grace's Note from a little drummer boy

People were created to be loved, things were created to be used.
The world is in CHAOS because people are being used, and things loved" -anon

wE must love ourselves
As a bluebird or chickadee
We must survive and sing
And hide and please, ourselves yes,
But others like us, friends, and family.

Birds may paint beautiful world with songs,
Brighten days long thought gone.
Take pleasure in their fancy company,
The little ones, they flit with hunger,
So very poor, with only one set of clothes.

Feed yourself loving, laughing, learning, living things
Because they were created to be used, these artifacts
that flutter around hearts with butterfly wings.
And in being kind to others, you are loving.
And in breaking bread, you are making friend.
And in listening so quietly, you are being so patient.

Friday, November 27, 2015

In King Arthur's Courtyard, a curious thing happened...

They say 1% of humans are angels
1% of Earth and Sky rule heaven
Little Russia tops out at three percent
U.S.A. a little over One and Middle East sprawls One
From 200 million square miles orbiting the sun
And in that whole world people are laughing and crying
Fighting and dying over seedy completion of pipe dreams,

the world pivots not on this axis, but pivots on spirit realer

More material and stronger than might making right.
Even the angels sing days of fusion between grace and peace
Like pure light nestled quietly in one box smuggled from Egypt...
Comfortably, but pursued for destruction by Slavers and Rulers.

Now somehow we've got secret power
But it is suggested it is only destructive bombs we hold in.
Fusion power in Hydrogen is all they really know
What's untold is molding this dream
  and the dream of every person
    who's wished to travel amongst stars
       from any round table or corner of the globule we call home.

This tiny planet cast in darkness half the time
Where might makes right, day and night
As we fight over energy densities
While the only justice we've been served for quite some time is through Science
Science of thought, Science of Mind, Science of space, Science of time
The method is unpacked industry through mysteries of intuition, obviously.
For it is both creative and destructive, like Fusion.
And with Fusion we can travel faster than light striking solar array
As with Science we traveled faster than one tick in a tocking clock.

It's the devils work we are alive,
But we're God's children to strive to be our best selves.

Our fight is our fusion
Our hope is our dream
Our Love is our Life
Our Cope is our peace

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

In Supposition and Deposition I Seek to Be Me

My intuitions are right
They’re right because they ARE simple,
  and they’re right because what gets tied in is the real world.

Vaulted complexity makes mayhem through speculation
And speculative fiction is just that, set up for pipe-dream
It's not inutition, we debase ourselves with this slippery-slopes

thinking instinct controls dog smelling porcupine
Attacking it in the speculative fiction Dog will succeed
but finding it, seeing, smelling, barking, "come look, quick!"
Ah, there is intuition

thinking instinct leads dog to dodge rock, meander through weeds
grapple dirt, bound and run forward toward bunny or that smelly thing
Knowing, "game", chasing metaphysical plot, "ah, this feels on!"
Ah, there is intuition

And doesn't it tell you, "You are part of something bigger."
Intuition sees this
Religion speculates, but spirit tells you true, "man, what a load of crap"
But then someone comes along, and tells you thank You.
... as perhaps their pulling said quills out of nose...
As perhaps they're licking you for bringing home bacon
As perhaps they visit your solitude for brief smile and companionship.
My intuition is real because they are simple
    And because through listening, they are tied to the real world

As in the old adage, "still waters silently eddie to the dance of music in your heart"
You don't have to believe, or make it... but sit quietly and listen to sense the world.
And that will tell you, you do know something about the intelligence that saw the quark soup.

Perhaps you can talk yourself out of seeing this
I know I could probably, might even be a need or want
But the metaphor made it real, and one's intuition heard it

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Normal Is a setting of Font Type

The more one feeds into business, the more the devil buys your soul.
I dealy success, makes one successful. But look at our epitome of one business man
The Man himself, Trump!
Whom stands for one racisist agenda.
Another cheap creep in asking me.


We’re already successful, with roof and heat and refrigerator and paycheck
Dry blankets and loving family, maybe, too that stays in contact


Worlds don’t need more successful people…
Needs more poets, dreamers, thinkers, makers, painters…
Needs more smiles, hopes, hugs, laughs, love…
Needs a little more of you and a little more of me

People and their work are what give value in this world

People and their love are what give meaning…

Without that, politicians are completely useless
And lawyers, a wolf
and toads, still toads… but they be croaking

Meanwhile, frog-legs for dinner, come by
We’ll grill them with butter

If Sabbath Were Observing Natural Activity I Would Feel Closer to You

Floating Algae, all pelagic and like…
I wonder about the tree in Fall carpeting Ground
I wonder about trees in general and their seed
Many of which are nestled in braces of needles around the down
And wet, they must..
They must sprout…
And wet They must sprout tall…

But the yard kills them, the shade stunts
The grass no, for that is mulched
The wet preserved
The roots watered
And slowly in spring the sprouting is maybe taller

But no! the wind spreads ye might cedar tree in bare Earth
Downwind is the nursery, upwind is our children
Downtime is their soil, uptime is our education
Downtown is their business, Uptown is our dream
And if you be reading this next after an Aloha,

I would just say, everybody I met be like that, except the poor
(but we are poor) even the middle class, which is but one nice car
and mortgage, and paycheck that separates and maybe rugrat on floor
We have bills paid, and plant upstream
And like trout, would die for our children
But unlike them, unlike trout, I do not always hide
I’m usually out and about standing exactly where I’m seen.

Which brings me powerful reasons to abide the times
Hide amongst back-biters and judgmental wives
Listen to the plotters and magnetometers
And commune with the Earth

For in daily observation(normal if there ever was such a thing)
resides principles of success
And there is, one for every creature sometimes multiplex
Crawling or breathing or swimming for shore

Be Fox, be Super, be wolf with war inside, or turtle with shell into hide
But learn, laugh, love, and live ‘cause no-one’s gonna for you
It’s what you’ll do anyway, but all four in balance will give me exactly what I need.
But I would add observe, as in that yucky, “observe the sabbath”
For if there is one God, he doesn’t need money and he is Everywhere! success is to be found

Those principles, your principle… your intuition, too, as tree or squirrel might have instinct.
Love tells you, connections in life are everywhere.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Survival Through Wireless

Today our bridge is replaced
Before that, roads were paved
Last century Ford birthed racing
And before, Steam powered everything
Through Science Technology Engineering Arts Math

Most everything is powered by Steam
As some re-engineer our power to regenerate
Most everybody travels bridges
As some re-think our oil in strategy
Most computers connect to internets
As some re-legate our intel by o.s.

It is new to think of aging trans-atlantic
Or ocular degradation on fiber optic lines
In a way, really this day, we've paved in-roads
put nature in one bowl by museum curator
With many people sleeping on beds more comfortable than TutenKahmin's
We had no idea in 1979,
That people would have to wait on Videos
Because there's only one server running and the others are getting new skyLakes.

Don't pay ANY attention to me.
But likely wireless only will survive
Simpler, smaller, warmer, and eat very little
Like we re-engineered that generator
Like we re-thought our consumption
Like we re-legated our tuxes

What Caring Town even generates it's own electricity?
What Star Android user actually edits his own kernel?
What Liche Swan ever gets mitigated before remediation?
Whatever decimating that kills one in ten before catastrophe
Likely it will be our poor memory of how to repair things.
"We don't know," will be favorite phrase repeated like any dinosaurs complaint of hangry.
Passion, Logic, Redundancy, Business.
                  These are the elements of the stars.
                  And the stars of trekking future bridged roads.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

If but Mere Shepard were to be King, If I mere Victor, Were to Share Thing, If mere Masons were to Sing, I, myself, might laugh at your stupid joke.

It's 6:33
And my brother doesn't care if he's poet or not anymore...
Don't care if he may be kingly or ish
His thing if it is, technology and New Worlds

Don't see the thing that brings fox and love
The greed of heart which does corrupt
For true to blue his meaning and my meaning
Are but toys, to push through passing moment... BUT TO ENGAGE

To set the flight
Might see plight... in tree... fungus... light... water... strength...
..........strength...................................that curious thing...
to be flexible or rigid or relative persistence or utility or adventure or exploration or fun
There, that is the world King David wrote psalms

Here is the small flicker family would blow upon
I am the faint light drowned by daylight
Where is magic
I'm blind to it
For my life is wrapped up in seeking marriage
     When I know it will probably destroy me like trap

tHe magic is in the model and in the crown
do you meditate still?  I will show you after closed eyes
do you drink still?  I will show you in sexy after glow
do you pet still?  I will show you in contemplation
do you work still?  I will show you in satori
do you see still... I will show you in light, or feeling, or taste, touch, or smell

I liken it to feeling, that six-sense of smell in old world hotel
the cold marble and tile and aftertaste of brew pub with key in hand, knowing...
You could die a small death tonight and gotten everything you wanted
But the facts w/ belie you won't, aren't, don't, ain't going to, too, making it all the sweeter

No, you'll sit down your ass and write poem
And in writing that poem you'll juggle to kings amusement
All 1 billion kings of your soul with smile, with love
At the motion, and coordination, and force with which one flings
And catches and sends and latches and passes and stashes for second
One ball to pass back to other hand which lacks colored ball falling or passed up as...

modeled magic

extended

into

collectives of small neurons somewhere very busy and very creating space and time
for us to build room for more shelter of our lives
to appreciate and explore in trying to be our best selves.



But it isn't juggling
It isn't even entertainment
It's a lot of sitting and tossing around ideas to extend metaphor while using one's expressive voice.
It is light, it is despair...
It is the bread of our lair, and but drink or maiden fair for fun and wit and for share.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

The Fox Inside

I didn't ask to be this flawed yet perfect person
I tried to love myself by exploring
I met many strange and wonderful people
And I dream a dream strange and wonderful when I love myself
The rest of the time is vacuuming dirt, is staring at clouds
Different smells and visages sneak up, and other times assault
Differences in normal things revolutionize my mind, but that's not trip
The weird is still weird, the mundane.. mundane, as I hunt for an escape...

And I am not alone

The social, the physical do have basic rewards
The spiritual, the emotional do have real affects
The mental does move things, material... when multiplexural worlds meet!
And in giving many things is resiliency,
                                one path out from what's keeping us down

The turtle has but one or two to survive through adversity...
                withdraw and/or hide
Beyond that horizon are foxes whom ply many resiliencies to survive...
                the two foxes inside and without
                        Their woolvy paws can walk fast or slow,
                        far drawing-near,
                        to find food and/or more people like themselves
                Their noses keep them fed as their mouths detect surroundings
                        for what's to be found, what's to be called.
                Their fur too is their home they find defense in like turtle
                They too can be shy and hide quieter than sitting fiver
                Foxes have two eyes that shine, two ears residing lively finely tuned
                Mates and Friends and Bosses, and likely lovers, too
                They're mean, they're friendly, they like to pant a lot in hot sun
                (another resiliency to keep cool)
                         for they too find ways to deal with life when they don't like
And Beyond that _Supers_ walk and do more with formal resiliency through fact-checked strategy
                Their strange takes time to be weird
                Their wonderful.. works like magic.
                They too find things to do when down and frowning,
                And they do get down.  More than you know...


     Many turtles lead perfectly good, long lives.
     Some foxes lead groups of peace, compassion, and understanding.
     A Few Supers make worlds better for everyone.
All made possible by resiliency and the out-it-provides to survive

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Blue Vacuum

Nature is a low pass filter...:
The sounds of earthquakes from Japan, rumble
Rather than clatter of rattled or shattered glass...
The trees remain as snags rather than pollen in the wind...
We remember birds from nests in our embracing winter,
And the sky is blue from high-energy light being scattered to four winds.

Planet Earth is one Low Pass filter...:
Radiation returns to space as black-body signature, having spent time,
Outward upon the unlit side from rocks and tides,
Ultraviolet light is done in by some tri-oxygen ozone,
Magnetospheres are ephemeral, but so very basic, ions dance a slow rhythm
While all life leaves behind their bones for iterative sandbox where only
Sleepy, dull-witted, slow, low energy, low maintenance, quiet child of the stars
Can joke with his friends privately about how funny some-a-something is
while playing with remains of taller mountains than we had now, founded M.Y.A.

Our Solar System is Passing low frequencies...:
The periodicity of planets takes years, and Pluto.. since discovered
Hasn't made any revolutions around the Sun.
The cycle of our star takes 11 years, changing little from yesterday and tomorrow
These vibrational cycles are milankovitchian and slower even than glacial retreat

Energy beyond, I would have to believe is one Stellar Blue jay... potentially or kinetic flying Soaking in daylight sun while looking at what remains, warm and reflecting outward Cohesive and intent upon dinner or supper, but freely wandering where daylight bespeaks...  Looking for leftovers from war against time and space... Looking for leftover remains of peace coveting nourishment.
There is no vacuum where stellar blue jays occupy,
Nor is there nothing in-between them and you.
Rare but Very Existential- and somewhere you know they're true too...
And like speck, they land to your awareness and just sound awFuL!
For their space is one blue vacuum.

Monday, October 19, 2015

Autumn in the Trees

The screams of the dying trees filter through the bleating chainsaw.
The tone of calves branded...
      The act entwined with fate, Mates the future with past.

This will create heat for future winter,
                                   but in Autumn's fall, celebration is bittersweet
The gift rots if forgotten, the lonely hibernates, the sentinals sleep frozen.

While communities draw inward and ignite sparkling hearth to keep warm by.
There are no shoulds, it's just instinct.
There is no why, we must survive...
            or end up watching fate act upon us like domesticated cattle.
I'd rather a book be that ... or a pond.
The cottonwood weeps in leaves on its lot.
While fern retreats underground to sleep.
The ivy and willow wolf prune their leaves.
Humble flower gardens wilt and melt back into dirt used up and dust,
                                                        Amidst summer's final rose bloom.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Three Minutes to Noon

I use to live ignored;
Tomorrow, mitigated.
Today be isolated all 'cause I'm illmatic
But how does any of it get better, I must ask
Yesterday I was up in my head
Tomorrow I'll be in others' thoughts
Today noone has a second or third thought for me

The phone rings silently punishing me every second
            though knowing noone wants me to be isolated

Last decade I had a silver birthday
Some decade I'll have one golden
                full of mica, starlight, and gilded frames of gold
This decade be bronze because our war party   Dirtbags
Whom are fighting alongside are tougher than nails.

The apocalypse was last week as I write this according to someone who talked to God
And his congregation spilled the beans.  I was wondering how long 5 minutes could last.
Good to know Hell isn't much worse than Heaven.

When I talked to God just to catch up... He told me I crushed my bro Dave in our games.
He didn't mention anything about the End of the World as according to Christians.
Figures, I'm the last to know these sorts of things, anyhow.

Five minutes to total annihilation persons say for the world,
But I see me only from 5 minutes until disappointment
                                explodes in my face... in perpetuity!
Until they find a cure for M.I.A.
Probably it WON'T be one when it comes around... if history belies.

Yesterday was annihilated
Tomorrow is presented
And today is just the best work I can do as isolated as I am

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Retelling Names of the Wind

Your music your words, your worlds
Spinning Galaxy with gravity
While illiteracy traces symbols
Forged from power and perception married
Married in metaphor even down in subatomic levels

The 's', the dis-ease, while statisticians predict
And crucify the freed... harvesting silence at times
While slithering up tree to tempt eve of dawn with forked tongue of probability
The talking tree that knows everything is one retelling
Of arche-type that lives in you, but also the world
-one bridge spanning fascination of mind's eye and focus-
But where are the clouds or land, where is climate and giraffes or even rememberance
For every fact has truth and context like any metaphor,
even axioms if they are to promise anything,
       even laws have to be Just,
              or advocates compassionate...
        untruths mitigated...

living despite hardship is made possible by daylight
The light in your life lifts up all it's own, troubles
And when groping for truth and context in troubles we can't see
Often seemingly made easier by ye old metaphor, p.
Suited up to fit you, shields, camouflages your dis-comfort
And builds fort within which to operate privately your thoughts
Behind hair, make-up, and furrowed brow in which promise resides...
the archetype of Captain America or perhaps Spider-man or Hulk...
All framed by a suit of clothes, designed and manufactured someplace like Montana
Too

You're a superhero to someone who loves you

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Meniscus Floats the Sign of Birth at Times in Gravity's Boat of Worlds Unknown, Known Life

I am Boat
I sail the seven seas with knots and breeze
Judas Priest the captain, pour money into me
But I am depleted when housed in thee
The words I scribe are temporal
The swords I carry for peril
And the cannon so xenophobic
Elon Musk be a terrorist

I am boat
I can mate, I can earn
And suggested health is my wealth
For wood replaced my bone

This is heaven, A life of slavery,
To priest whom blames me
As I carry
his shame, his guilt... laid upon me

Because he would not explain his bullshit, not to a boat
for fear of being overheard by bird or sea or fish that pees in ocean deep.
And so I'm blamed for being a boat and boatlike because he can't ram you finished
In this material world of sink or swim.
But that, too, is more bullshit for grammarians to parse in beautiful world
With all their bitches and blame for the game is still the same
If captain be one deaf leoppard from anywhere besides Judea

And what be him?  Duck!  and keep ducking!
The machinery is in motion, the mast... the hoist

I quit these loveless friends and jobless work
While Giovanni's smile... in memory... still ciphers my prow with princess riding
whispering, "heavenly..." clung to said prow with legs spread in dream
I owe my thanks to the blood of humanity for my freedom.  But not you. Or you.
Riding on in fantasy... I kinda somewhat am hating my life of isolation.

Friday, September 11, 2015

Oh, the uncertainty: how do we cope? by Steven S. Holden



 Uncertainty is a paradox. On one hand, it is a potent and powerful force that motivates research, a need to know. The gratifying result of research is evidence used to guide practice and policy.

On the other hand, uncertainty always remains after research because of the inherent complexity and ambiguity of the real world. So policy-makers and practitioners are (or ought to be) troubled about inevitable residual doubt. Examples include what to do about climate change, what body mass index is ideal and whether to test for prostate cancer.

Why uncertainty remains


Research may help reduce uncertainty, but it can never provide certainty. Research is an errorful process that peers into an obscure reality.
Determining what is true is plagued by the problem of induction, which was recognised in antiquity by Pyrrhonian sceptic Sextus Empiricus. As British philosopher David Hume explains, it is a mistake to infer “that instances of which we have had no experience resemble those of which we have had experience”.

Research evidence may be useful, but it cannot deliver certainty. Another British philosopher, Charlie Dunbar Broad, notes that inductive reasoning is the “glory of science” and the “scandal of philosophy”.

In effect, concluding from one observation, or even many, what is true may be wrong. Accordingly then, claims may simply be false alarms.

Falsification was Karl Popper’s response to the induction problem. In his view, we can disprove notions but can never prove anything. For instance, the generalisation that all swans are white can never be proved, but it can be disproved by the discovery of just one black swan.

The theory of falsification acknowledges that research findings are never certain, but raises a new problem: many useful truths may be missed as confirmation is not possible, and disconfirmation may never be achieved.

Research is caught on the horns of a dilemma, between reporting what may be a false alarm and and missing out on identifying an important truth for lack of evidence.

Ultimately, none of this is very satisfying. Researchers, it appears, cannot escape uncertainty.

 

How do we cope with uncertainty?


Uncertainty is an uncomfortable position for many people and will generally give rise to varying levels of uncertainty-related anxiety. So how do we cope?

One approach is to deny the uncertainty, to act as if the eureka moment is true. But overconfidence does not eliminate the uncertainty as incorrect theories, conclusions and claims based on research often reveal.

Sometimes even the most famous get it very wrong as Mario Livio details in his book, Brilliant Blunders.

Another approach is to accept that there is doubt about what is true, being careful to distinguish doubt from denial. The confusion of the two is seen in the common use of the word sceptic as a denier of the research, such as a climate-change sceptic.

But a sceptic in the philosophical sense of the word acknowledges that what is true is uncertain. Scepticism is a factor that limits confidence as revealed in the 18th-century British anthropologist and philosopher Thomas Henry Huxley’s definition of agnosticism:

In matters of the intellect do not pretend that conclusions are certain which are not demonstrated or demonstrable.

For instance, in any modelling of future weather – be it tomorrow, next week or two decades hence – it must be acknowledged that there is doubt about what will happen.

But a researcher expressing such a view about future climate projections in the current environment is very likely to be howled down by those who dogmatically divide the world into believers and deniers.

Claiming evidence-based knowledge and uncertainty simultaneously is a tough position for the researcher to hold, but arguably a very important one. For this reason, epidemiologist and journalist Elizabeth Pisani and physician and writer Michael Crichton observe that while research feeds policy, there is much danger when the two become entangled and, in particular, when research becomes political.

Advocates for action can be especially intolerant of uncertainty and may seek to simply dismiss it. An important role for researchers is to stand up for uncertainty.

A good researcher will maintain a degree of scepticism, according to the North American philosopher Pierre Le Morvan. He describes “the doubtful scientist” and “the humble scholar” as prototypes of “healthy scepticism”.

The third option is resignation and despair. This, however, does not solve the problem of uncertainty. Rather, it simply returns us to the observation that uncertainty is unsettling for many.

Uncertainty is unsettling. Research seeks truth but will always falls short. The uncertainty that remains encourages humility and discourages hubris among the advocates for action.

For researchers, uncertainty is a motivating force with an endless supply. If research is never final and uncertainty always remains, then one certainty is that there will always be plenty more work to do.


original artwork @ CCA by Steven S. Holden

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Guest Post from friend entitled:"Mercer's First Journey"

What makes me happy,
sunsets and sunrises
car movies and drive-ins
kayaking makes me happy
Building solar arrays makes me happy

What makes me healthy,
pills and paints
habits and routines
socializing makes me healthy
living in one place makes me healthy

But they call me mad, the uninformed
That cost me my career and education
And that does make me angry
Because I am MAD!
I'm MAD because few hear me
I'm MAD because few see me
And if hearing and seeing is believing

Then fewer than few understand
And f.e.w.e.r than f.e.w.e.r. realize
That I'm mad that they can't understand
TIME After Time after time repeating my relation

there ain't no realization
so some don't get out of bed, Cuz they know
so some don't feel easy, Cuz they worry why
so some don't slide through, Cuz they burnout
so some don't explain anyway, Cuz they stressed
so some don't live, Cuz they died inside

so some don't stay, Cuz they give up
so some don't heal, Cuz pain feels real
so some don't forget, Cuz shit traumatic
so some don't forgive, Cuz they guilted
so some don't understand, Cuz they lied to

Me this all all makes me angry, the repetition
You seeing but not seeing me
You hearing but not hearing me
You sensing me, but not understanding
Because all the realization I want, is really smallSo small... on one thousand mile journey like footstep after footstep

Instead those steps are those of angry slow motion!
A thousand miles and eternity don't mix in anyone's heart well:
In our world manifests care-less spirits, on stranded path, because of this.
That, would make you mad, too,
If you tried staying to heal, forget, and forgive all while understanding why.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

They Think I illmatic Cause of Talsorian Games

Your reality is like my video game
I play with pen and paper
There's some constraint
But rules are dropped and raised

My video game, does only what it's told to
There is no minus 1$ dollar swift-talk
No pouch of unendable mendables
And with no third-eye, little imagination

But you're locked in, some fantasy cell
With key.. while masturbation has lost it's fun
And in city the fantasy is cyberpunk
And in country the science is magic

While in city, it's all criminal
And in country the devil prowls
Through and through
Through and through

So play your cyberpunk and be the illmatic
And I in country time will idyll away with magic
But you got to keep them seperated
Any city folk around will have to toe the line
And country folk will need to sing the dime

Because in the country we ain't heard of machines
As the Or-i come to claim your souls
Whereas in the city you better act somebody
Or the Gold will forget your guns

So, we have a forgotten peace, nobody knows we're arguing
Because Reality's don't always win
Nor does dogma completely fit in with future dreams.
No, the mighty thing that justifies beginnings is
Evolution through trying good things for you to do
For adoption is like adaptation for those of you whom think
Wherein only the meek and fleet will ever win global catastrophe
If you call rank survival, "winning", and small furry things the beast!

Friday, August 28, 2015

!!!tHe Super And Incredible Datsons Of Maxim!!!

I sleep in until 6:30 where I find machine running
Step-mom working for an hour
And a stupid 5 million dollar house
With it's radio that took 10,000 years to invent
It's lightbulbs that took 100 failures before working
And the milled lumber shipped using 100 horses
With imported clover and kentucky grass perfected by 10 plant ecologists
Raking it for twigs from the wind, I rake dirt
From unseasonally warm climate change
That's changed with respect to time, too,
Dry summers get dryer, wet springs getting wetter
While the deserts expand and lakes get larger.

I sit in some sort of pose between Hyde and Hulk
Trying to calm, rage?

no.

But just so I can start hearing again.
For sometimes the world is too much with me...
And it does turn me less green, less apprehensive

So I sit in some sort of pose between Hyde and Hulk
cross-leggedly listening... feeling, tasting, seeing, smelling
the infinity of time without space, not dead but still
Like the Peace I am wishing would fill my heart!

Why Not!?

I was born this way
With ears to hear my breathing with
And nerves to feel my pulse
Leaving me with time and focus of needing less, wanting less
And probably working less so I can spend more time on family.

My dogs only rest when they die the dreaming of sleep
My awakening about killed me once, door after door was shown
And much the same before, I was not idle living the idylls of country life.
Things to be fixed, things to be written, and things to be read.

The kingdom of real heaven is not known here.
Only elderly men with volumes forgotten in unwritten diaries
But having found their lonely and many-roomed house of rememberance...
 ...lonely and manifold...
Sometimes I wonder why I've never noticed how dark it could be in here
What with my preoccupation with light.

No, the kingdom of real heaven sorts out the stars
more concerned perhaps with panspermia than taxes
more concerned perhaps with truth than control
more concerned perhaps with pragmatism
With grace only bequeathed to poor people.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

It's 9:30 and a Breeze is Blowing Through

I was twitterpated yesterday Morn,
Disassociated and dis-at-ease
When inspiration gripped and throttled me
Over and over until I was destroyed In waking dream
Like some unriddled message unwrapped from an unboxed lock and unlocked, finally free
It was me with their pills and their paint, their paint and their pills.
Needless to say, quite a shock, and so I had a drink,
Toasting A.L.L-  ALL Life Loves

A stoney dance in the rain continues
Over stoney Earth below stoney bombs
With their pills and their paint, their paint and their pills
Hybridizing mutants to come through with their Ubermaus
Seems progressive, and it is... to breed compassion and understanding
And experiments continue, what is wrong with you Breakout the computers,
decipher the code, prospect your future
Now if time would just hurry along... only shortened his life within 99% confidence
Replace lithium, replace the flouride
With their pills and their paint, their paint and their pills

It's 9:30, and paradise has been paved with a parking lot
I wonder and wander to the gasoline and cigarettes, growing bitters
They aren't doing well, the mead is much sweeter, and better mulled
It will be better tomorrow when it ages more and mellows, too.
And tomorrow will see no life eternal, merely time without space
Living in the hearts and minds of rememberance;
And so I give a hug to empty air or tear to dust
Knowing that Jupiter's rising is but a complicated game.
Knowing that Civilization is four-square-star-fire
Knowing that is what killed me having lifted their paint and pills
From the hand of those playing games, mocking God with their money, power, or respect.

If quantification all comes down to nothing... we've found rest in Satire;
Dying faster and faster till holes are rent and unmendable.
And then Who will you civilize, then.

It's 9:30, and grave business of living keeps nature dying in Nature Preserve
Fenced off beyond the pale while the D triple prime fences us in;
And our fire shrinks to passivity

Speaking of passive fire...
I knew traveling the galaxy is expensive
But for crying out loud Cadarache, you're too fat to fit on-top the LFTer!
Let's hear from Skunkworks, if it's not all glam.

It's 9:30 and I got drunk yesterday,
Seems a shame not to with all the people dying to live,
And all our dead probably wishing they could cat one right now.
Don't think of pineapples!
Don't think of pineapples!

Wednesday, August 12, 2015


Worlds of Earth Roll Like Stone while the friction of fission keeping them alive with criticism of indepenence keeping independent hopes their own.

Pappa was a rolling stone
Mamma like an atmosphere
And kid and I were like the stars
Before we journeyed into core
Where the hairs are split endlessly for eons or ages
slapping our feet with every progressive step

I live between papa fission and mama fusion
As fungus.
I am that which grows beneath your feet
As symbiote.
I help worlds whom crystallized grow freedom
As liberty.
I work universe mirrored
As I help, you see

The Masons have travelled space and time
They know life exists beyond our gravity's well.
But distances are far, and we're so very little,
That like dust carried on wind... we too are pelagicly slow
Only traveling where we like or liking what we know.

Was there a question, I review
Their penultimate isn't my quintessential
For I live in the fire
And I live in the air, earth, etc....
Having drunk the rain in communion with fission and fusion

If there was query it's answered by this advice,
Don't try to sell bottled water, even when it's cool.
Or I might just trip on down to creek, and start bottling that
For your blueline fantastic.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Starships and Starfish

Scientists say we came from fish.
They made this computer
They made my car run
So, THEY must be pretty smart fish.

And if Real fish reside in ocean basin
While fish like us live in gravity's hold
Swimming in air, there must be up there
Fish that swim between stars untold

Outerspace beings that live in spaceships
Mining chunks and eating dust of nebula
That drifts free for the taking.
Plundering like us on gravity's ocean
Except within thin limits, top skimming...
Worlds' meniscus of gravity's holding.

Happily driving starships across all of it.
With fusion power like any common star
Scooping up dust, fusing, making grid iron gold habitats
Out between stars apart from climatic disturbance
of earthquake, blaze, hurricane, or rain.

Starfish peer at us with powers of the mind
saying, "he's too deep," meaning our gravity.
They may build submersible one day.
We -black smokers ecologies of oceans deep
Us, the whole human race, whom burn fossil fuel
Whom smoke our cigarettes and gasoline
Like some black vent in deep ocean somewhere.

Promethean thinking -fire- hallmark of tomorrow
Thinking... we do some, but without fusion are lost
Never to crawl the land erect but for blink of eye in geologic time
While remembrance of promise and possibility will burn forever.

Should we fail to find or create rudiments of understanding and compassion
We'll burn in hell with our fission bombs and fission planet
Continuing to live like said fish at ocean vent eternally pelagic,
Lost from the light of poetry.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

The Once and Future King --OR-- You Are Victor if Physically Strong, Mentally Awaker, and Morally Straight-

after they're done with me
They'll come for you...

With all their drugs or shock therapy

After they're done with me
They'll come after you

With all their shock therapy or voyeurism

If one thing I've learned, there is no normal
No flock to hide in
Not in the day of DNA and facial recognition

As... you're so fond of reminding me everyone is an individual
As... I'm mocked for being aN Individual by some of those closest

After they're done with me
They'll come after you

With all their voyeurism or lies

If one thing I've learned, we're spirits having human experiences
No ultimate reality in the narrative of fiction on faux news or rumor mongering

As... you're too busy to simply sit and listen
As... I'm so busy sitting and listening, witnessing everything come full circle

After they're done with me
They'll come after you

With all their lies or secret feelings

If one thing I've learned, they can't win for the crooked eat their souls
Know the liar lies to theirself and feed that way, too,
Like a statician finding proof of an outcome

For worlds are more about than dying
Or having money, power, or respect
Worlds don't need more successful people, look how screwed up it is!
That is your rolemodel...
We work hard for our own destruction like one Donald Trump,
Whom would demonize himself if it meant getting elected to President.

Lionize all you like the good, the faithful...  they seem judgemental
Lionize the one percent...  they seem destructive
Lionize the tool...  they seem overpriced
Unless we have little and do good anyway

After they're done with me they'll come for you

Because they're worms of doubt or snakes of lies
Sucking their teeth lest they reveal their vile soul

And you'll be free to die for your community
But not much else, lest you take note...

Free your ass, and your mind will follow

Saturday, July 25, 2015

If I Were To Help You

A hobby army with forces to unite
Does get something done...
That is your occupation, perhaps in days last light
But my workload seems to destroy me in plight
For the days are too hot for me
Yet you'd work me more
The nights too long for your longing yore
And when day is done we, me and you, have little fun
That is, little fishing, little camping, and little alone time
Not to say I'm your wife, but I am your son

Tomorrow you promise, tomorrow seems to be your graveyard anymore...
When it does come.
  Tomorrow we did do, too, but tomorrow I seem to have to forget first
  When promise comes through.

Little joy I have, but a great many comforts
Like privacy but soon I'll exchange it for pleasure
As everything seems to be given over to stolen leisure
"Why inspire confidence if we're to leave him sodden graves"
In that case do less, earn less, and leave memories of love.
For your time is invested poorly as it stands now
Leaving me with memories of spitting in shadows at my soul
Let it not be said I have no memory of your hard work,
But all work and no play breaks trust on Saturday or Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or "Every Saturday"

Little time for me in all your time leaves me leaving you playing fool, again.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Chasing Pavements

she don't know how
To ride that now
Don't do that thing
That makes souls sing

Can't dance or take wing
Can't make the dig
Can't find the hand to hold

Liking it calm and quiet
Screams quietly in silence
A silent lucidity
She just like me

Or as I used to be
Wishing a million miles between my head
Or all the words said that would fix instead
Quietly screaming this lucidity
Left unsaid

Wanting the prize, but unwilling to commit
Willing to suffer, but hating moments
Knowing she/he could win, but fuck it.

And whoever they are lie just enough
Whoever everyone really is, leave just enough alone
And no one really has it good, it all kinda sucks
The escape is not blocked, the exits are marked
And we're small enough to get by.

For when the quiet creeps in, the silent lucidity dreams
Solipsticly... sometimes enough... to have room for me

Because I am loved and can sometimes love
But the lies get to wearing thin
When human nature rubs up... against itself
And people choose themself over and again

I really think either God, Gold, or Guns
is kinda satanic, either that... or..
Worlds revolve without Love in pursuit of success

Success with capital Succor, that of
Money, Power, or Respect
again... satanic
a different name for the same.

The self-same need that made me run from me
10,000 things that had to be paved in front
And then I sought time itself and love
Realizing, "oh, that's what I want"
That's whats fun or hot or happiness is made from

And prayed life no longer fleed me
As I pray now! and in 10,000 poems

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

If You Were Cherished, et al.

    You ignore me
I learned and trusted you to meet me halfway;
And you don't.  I don't even care why anymore.  I think you self-absorbed or snobbish.

You lead me on in public and in private bide your time, it seems.
For your inability to express how you feel...
Or how you feel or think about anything or everything.

You wish to be aloof, like anything, but that just makes One nothing
Known to no-one or anyone alike.
Without a care perhaps, but uncared for as well in retrospect.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

My Aloha From the Warmest Hug

My great Aunt passed away yesterday,
She still lives for weeks or more, now.
When I visit, she's out
But stirs quietly... knowingly... saying glad you come
For when do the dead ever really sleep?
When do the silent stop up ears?
They have eternity for that,
           and they know it!

I tried to thank her for being in my life
All I could do, were bring her my sort of flowers...
Said hello, and ran out to hug the family in tears.
I tried holding conversation,
             Could only say hi and goodbye.
It certainly isn't easy dying,
   but life isn't an easy matter either
   and so I stopped by rather-than get on road
   driving to greater grand canyon where it feels
   like I am every-time people start to depart on some long-goodbye

Long like the grand canyon and as unbridgeable for the current times.

The flowers, they free the space through sound
The visit, but an aloha
But she was glad, She knew like I knew when waking from coma
One can feel people when addressed in that state
And like any waiting room, say in hospital, one doesn't really want to leave
Not really, because most often... it's not to leave
But it is really nice to run into someone you know to pass the time
Or ease troubled mind

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Why Should I be the Bum to Tell You

Pop, don't think a lot!
It makes you dangerous, they say.

Dangerousss, to be educated this day
DANGer ossified
dangerUS the accomplished life
The one entrenched in warfare

But is it war to drive a car?
Is it fighting to stoke the stove?
Last I checked it was getting by...
For the fight is with time, I'm told,
With each us indebted billion-fold.

Once when our heart beat faster from our first kiss
Once when our heart soared from father's pride
Once we found our home in our favorite stick
And once for every pulse shared in any hug

Once when muscle pulled ball to outfield
Once when feet made class on time
Once when teacher smiled with pride
And once, when friends clapped... aside.

Once when deer, dead, had died
Once when beer, bred, had sighed
Once when prose had lied
And once, when fiction had excited.

And in the telling your lives are told, too.
Throw you son down a well, or do your job, cold tale.
Burn that synapse, let it languish and die
Let the light find it's own height.
Which isn't True!
We heart, and laugh, and live beyond four square walls
If the internet is no small testament to that.

Live effin' life, laugh, sing...
Even dance if you have to, because life is poor without wings.
And poorer still without any of these things.

And in stirrings of stillness, the world without does too.
Does live, does laugh, does sing, does dance, does wing
So bums may be happier than you, but with no one to rescue,
While they listen to the mutterings of judgemental people.

But they aren't judges, and neither are you
And just as indebted for the gift of time.
So why not get your money out of politics!
'Tis madness, people are so mad
To think time won't reclaim its losses.

A Place to Paint

Places! in this geography of time
Like news races! in place of mind
I languish thinking of places!
In both space and time
And think of cases! to paint the rhyme

But a place to paint!
And rebutt there's no place of mine...
But there's places!
People spend their life...

Perhaps that's the stasis!
I need to keep in line... with my paint!brush
With an open eye...

---------------------------

With all the fluid of yesterday
Flowing in the holes of paper, fine....
And all the morrows of yesterday lying
In paintbrush, or paint, or page of mine...

It seems such a small thing, then why?
Why agonize finding the prize
When worlds surmount expectation with or without
Frames of surmise or justified heights

Perhaps to surprise!
But also, to fly! with an artistry of mind...

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

If Free Birdies Perched on my Radio

Life was fine the last three
Can't seem to pray more apology
Than thanks to God in heaven for the rain,
Or fine cats, or silent television, or tricky coyotes,
Or sunshine in painting, or ugly goldfish, or clean floor
Or bright birdsong, or saving bucks, or running truck
The world is so green today while yesterday there was a faint rainbow
Just for me, and one before... in public vale of mountain and stream.

There was no me in you I found out, but similarity in tongue and coat.
There was no answer in who I learned, but the capricious found.
And there's thanks be to God for that, too, I suppose,
Where Turns go or don't, they erode the bank
For a river runs through Seldons psychopharmacology,
And all one is left for company when mythory is dispelled.
Even thanks might remain empty, and so I would not give Haldol to the dying
Because within the poppies one would at least need sunshine to make them grow.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Beyond the Box is Black Lava

My room is private,
May that mean Holy.
In comes person says let me do that
But I say, "but comeon, I can do that"
I'm American, we like that
Cleaning up after ourselves if we can
Unless they're vampires and demons we've killed
Sometimes that's too messy and too cruel to deal with.

Patriot Act pt. II transpired/expired today
Most provisions really haven't changed much.
Supposedly the Post is stopping photographing our letters
I wonder what all the snapshots look like in collage.
I wonder what all the texts look like printed on them
and mailed to wives, or business partners.
I always try so hard to print concise on them everytime.

My step-girlfriend is a spy and international Santorini vacationer
Where Atlantis sunk.
I think we're sunk.
In the 40's everyone thought we were sunk.
But it took 20 years for civil rights to unsink everything waterlogged
From the kool-aid they were drinking in Montana missle silos.

Was/is that to be my destiny... to hide in a hole forever dating women
That declare war on my balloon animals.
But at least MY kool-aid has some kick.
Because in plain water there is bacteria.
How do I know?  It's Science!

Friday, May 29, 2015

It's not about money I'm told
They're all about the neckties that strangle clear thinking.
#Lin

A Job Undone -excerpt from book Progress-vcv

Supplying the market with material
meters supply and demand so that economics becomes synonymous
with materialism and consumerism is bred

So does nature supply man
with houses like a beaver, made of sticks,
and roads like the deer and elk with webs of transportation

In matters spiritual
who can say what way is close to God
but close to God is the way
and maybe empty of expectation, can one receive presents of love and happiness

And thus all progress is made
industry manufacturing the material
nature growing the spiritual
with all thought, a great tree, bending to the winds of time

Industry grows like money
much like Nature, grows like God
and all the questions of the universe
reduce to, can we get by for presents of progress

Nature grows like God
in an infinity of ways
Nature can be savage and at the same time compassionate
half-way around the world to believers and non-believers, alike.

While the questions of the universe Dare the heart to dream,
and can open the present before us so it unfolds behind,
tragedy abounds.

Can we make it through?
everything says yes.
years upon years councils our path
eyes upon eyes scry our future
tongues upon tongues argue for us

for a presence of progress
to move forward
to grow up/down/sideways
in a societal mores
in a personal victory
Industry flows with materialism
in an infinity of ways
While the questions of the universe
dare the heart to dream
with eyes upon eyes scrying our future
in a personal victory of resilience.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

The Corner in a Leaf

I quit smoking for four days
Wasn't really hard or stressful
Just have nothing else to do
I can't say, or do, or be anybody where I am
And without cigarettes I had to think about that
I felt a hell of a lot better
Think tomorrow I'll get patches.
But still, I wonder...
What is it I'm doing with my life
If I can't dance
And I can't jump
Or mix it up
Or find a love
Or watch the dove

Just some birds chirruping
Crickets in the song
And a plant or two silent, still
Quietly bearing witness everything is accomplished
By doing absolutely nothing

The rain continues to threaten
I want less, And expect nothing
But somehow promise finds me
And tells me I'm the one.
Lifts me up, makes me have fun
And I smile with surprises smooching me.
Thanks be
            to God.
And Thanks to you!

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Mother's Day

Mom wants to laugh with your laughing
And Cry with your tears
Her heart sings with one's singing
And Dies with your fears
She wants to Love in children's loving
And feel anger at your anger towards others
For after all mothers are part of you
Both in Nature and Nurtured whomever.

And whenever I think of her
Or find her in my heart
I give her a great big hug
Even though she's departed

For I can still remember her face, her smile
And I can still be thankful for being her child
And friend, and companion, AND...
Asset according to Dad.  He told me that.
But I would laugh, and sing, and dance
With my mom's memory still loving
And still warm in my hug.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

The Article You Want

I live a boring and lonely life
It is quite and quiet living with this companionship
For apparently I am too holy to be friends with
And too much a sinner, too.

Who cares
The Elk shot by hunter
Passes on the grace to more
While brute merely digests
The material energy of gore.

Who cares
The squirrel killed by cat
Passes on his legacy
Which is never found by crude claws
Meant to shit and piss
For he isn't a word that's been known to be erased
And even now forests grow

Who cares
The bird eats the bug
And when birds die they get eaten by bugs
It's not my place to fear them
For they are dead to Lord and do not hear him speak
They see with eyes borrowed or lent
And kill but flesh in hopes to feed their belly
Perpetuating the very things they fear.
The death, the sin, the anger of innocents

And harried world will continue
As they know not the way of Peace or Love or Humanity
as Elk or cat or squirrel or bug
For they do not speak to the wind
And forgot their names
Living as children without teachers
Except a dusty old book trimmed to fit their materialism.
May they forsake their idols they've created from money, power, and respect.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

You Know, You Don't Stopping It

Can I be a King?
Can I see the horizon of Green?
When I dive, dip, or swim...
What eddies stir up riches?
What ocean floats my desire?
What folk rejoice I'm Liar?

For I'd have to hide the truth,
Or make them laugh when telling them.
Because anyone rich, and I don't mean middle class
Got back forty and big garage.
I mean like police sucking, sulking, protection.
I mean... I mean... where pushing buttons is done for you
A place that instead of feeding off you, Only ever is sculpture
Something formed to cradle soaring spirits.

Because anyone rich Would have to lie to get that,
Oh that they don't care...
That someone is cold,
A kid is hungry,
That life is sold.
They do care for they are human and have addresses.

It's just that shit happens.
And the people in their life are petty...
Making hearts made cold by coin, harder.
Making minds found folded by loins, shorter.

And I? I weep,
because Worlds don't need more successful people...
Yet that is exactly What I want! from sheer boredom and loneliness.

And the internet cries with a cardboard letter?
"Please, anything will help!"
And so you turn to yourself, and in turn lie to you...
Saying instead of what is indemic and institutionalized poverty
Criminality, blame the victim, stigmatic opinion of sin and illness
All the While quoting bible passages with its you not me pointard.

But that Lie... something is better than nothing:(
When what is wasted does not, is not accounted, IN

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

A Marriage of Counsel

Men and Women are really Men and Women
Who you are is not granted
Lest you build your house upon the sands
Of other people Judgements, Opinions, Or Thoughts

who I am...
    is not your label
in Judgement, or Opinion, or Thought
meaning, what you see or hear or touch or taste or think is hardly me
For I am all that, but to you there is no synergy

Often I am judged by my behavior and who isn't
Sometimes people have opinions on what I witnessed
Occasionally everyone thinks about my thoughts
For I am not like them, and I am not unlike you

    ...but I am...

I am an amalgamation with mentithesis in synergy
I am a syncopated polyrhythm
I am a manifold meeting between the opposites

And, in a way you are, too
But you see me with fractured mind as I dance or weave
Or box or fright my way into maturity, depending
On who you view in both first impression or what day I'm having.
Even sometimes in deep reflect you get lost, why wouldn't you.
And, in a way I view you thusly, too

It's true! You are the marriage between less than and more
Where as I am the mate of my own destiny's lore
Both matee and mate with best in store
But not as two, or fractured poor

I am me, and haven't been other
My own teacher or friend or brother
I am me, on any given day
An American, A graduate, a hayseed at play

And when I grow up, my brain?
Will be both mazed and direct
When I take all in the game!!!

Words From Worlds Beyond you

Time is the reference
Or geology is, perhaps this is just an excuse
Where geography is the frame, or maybe not
It’s Climate that’s the independent variable, but it’s human caused
So really we have nature and nurture for our Ecology
But wait, isn’t that my cat meditating?

In all of this, isn’t we
a misnomer
For we are brains naming our selves
We are starstuff in awe of past lives and present reality
In point of fact, I am a social collective of a billion cells, And 5 billion germs!
That Can’t Be Forced To Share!  and/or… That Can’t Be Forced To Love!

I in fact love this poem
Because it, too, is a frame of reference
As you are in it.  I can see you downriver somewhere
Thinking, he wrote this how?
But I know, that one day this will find you, too
And this will be no frame of reference, because it’s poetry to you.
From somebody forgotten to you.
And so it is about you.
Sad, you are your frame of reference.

Reach OUT!  Get HELP!!

Thursday, April 30, 2015

If Savagery Meant an Illicit Passion

where are their lives?
The ones that mattered
The ones like you, or I?
Where are the people that dried their own clothes
The ones that doubted if God existed
Where are the ones whose legs ached after work
The ones that felt they wasted their off hours watching television
Where is everyone that felt they needed a because
For doing anything and everything, because they wondered
And felt a sinner for doing anything and everything they liked
When those very things were completely acceptable to begin with
And those self-same things were done with our own time and places.
I wonder if there is something extraordinary about the ordinary
civilization=ordinary=domestication-backbiting-fighting-laissez-faire
Or maybe that's ordinarily normal
The kiss of dreams and passion possessing
The very bribe of existence for youth lost
An exchange of savagery for life itself
Trading in being supper for a nice warm coat
And so, we become animal, we become cat or squirrel or chickadeedeedee
Showing how it's done By cleaning or packing or surviving winter ourselves
But if I had a billion dollars?
I'd show them how to float like algae all pelagic and like.

But, instead I'm stuck in my Jesus christ pose.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

A Crickets Teacup

Reality in the Universe
All time all movies
We wouldn't know
When Mom died she checked into a hotel
A recovery retreat from/for abuse

And I, I wept that she departed
As I was wont to do anytime she left without hugs
And Dad was sad with me.  And she?

She chose to never return except in spirit
She's somewhere out there... living her life
Dead to me, perhaps.  But only cause it's easier to believe
Than I was part of her pain or part of the problem
Or that everyone I knew through her was also, too.

It pains.  It gladdens.
It's a joy to know she's doing something she needs to do.
But I'm not thankful I can no longer call her companion or friend.

And Reality?
It is only a single language
a, "wie bist du?" or "como ste?"
with single-band voice-box or ear
implying single-brain to process or hear
But when the angeLS sing?  Anything, can make sense
Be thankful you have a second brain, but set it aside once in awhile.
Let one's spirit rise, take hold, and surprise for a spell
For that's your soul.

We only live our life once, I'm told
Learn meditation and put on hold
Those thoughts of messy desk or cluttered crap
And laugh in doing so, cause all that
proves you a robot, reactionary and myopic
As in fact, your lasting master loves you If you do, too
Help find time for yourself to live, rather than consume.

Finding the handle in that teacup will keep cool hands
For it isn't an indifferent world, perhaps lonely or confused
But time is there for you, even paupers have more than they know.
And so if you use, know that you bring peace to you and others
As we're all connected in ways both serene or good
With divinity in you but also God.
And that which surrounds you is in all our lives, too!

And if we all prove departed to some convention
If all of this is some elaborate Jacob's Ladder,
at Least we'll have given thanks for some parts
At least we'll have lived, And have been loved.
Perhaps laughed and learned something about it all.
And therein lies the Light.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Of Ants and Asses --- Poetry Super Highway April 26th, 2015 --- Poetry Challange -- Erin Elizabeth Smith

Truman Schwartz is an advisor for bucks, doe, and chickens
In school, the bluer you were, meant the more you studied.
But like Sith and Senators saying today, "Let them suffer,"
He enrolled more than he could handle in organic chemistry
So that some would Presumably flunk and toss away money
On something rigged to take it without value in exchange
For at least more than a few bucks and does facing the guns.

I'm so cerulean now that that is now over the rainbow
The rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way.
And when Lennon and McCartney make their art, my life lifts higher.

To skies without a chemical romance
To lives with everything.
I suppose we'll know life abounds Greater
than surmised by taste, or entertainment
while searching for phone card for dying mother.
But those, too, are the taxes of humanity
And true source for our humility.

May Sith and Senators suffer
Let them pay our taxes of humanity for us...
They're advising folly in building empire and oligarchy
One man, testing everyone, after overselling their idea
While setting courses of action to fail as many as possible
With laws of parenthood as their strong arms, through and through.
While WE pay their taxes, or healthcare, or retirement, or bodyguard.

It seems silly and stupid they're so myopic
When even the police know they're supposed to serve and protect.
US, while we're the ones paying the taxes.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

e=mc@

Theoretically, we could take grams of salt
And chunk it through Einsteins equation
Or even all your poo, which highly radioactive,
Needs to be vented from all it's power!

But something nice like your broken television
That's a big poo which most families produce
And instead of burying that like dog or cat
We could power up the 3-d printer to generate
Another television, or another roll of tickets to win.

For Everything is Energy, fluid flowing through universe
Some is left to sleep as bulk and some rarefied but as sleeping
While others flock or hawk their way through to their destiny
Otherwise why would shit decay?  You must ask yourself.
The dreamer sleeps and in doing so creates the world
For us to wash our hands with and liken to God

Or to help a friend, or to write with pen
Or to help lighten up, or to water crops
Or to take boat out on water and get some exercise.

California could use your salt, California needs Water
Seems ridiculous, doesn't it what with the ocean...
But the dreamer sleeps!  Wake Him/Her UP!!!

There is war at our door
There is murder in our streets
They're taking the governor to the gallows,
While children cry in their sleep from hunger.
And hunger will only spread out to reach us all.
It happened in Syria.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Mountain Standard

Universal Greenwich Mean Time says it's snowing
That's the honest truth
To the business man it's payday
To me? Hell's probably frozen over
To Commuters slick roads
To flowers DEATH
or maybe not, maybe a year without blooms
For the flower too grows in Earth we all do
And can reproduce asexually, too.
What would that be like for humans.

Universal Greenwich Mean Time says the soil is clay and rock
That's the honest truth
What's beautiful is that we know that
To the artist it's source
To me? a pot
To commuters roads may be stuck
To flowers MUCK
or maybe not, maybe a soil it can turn up
For the flower makes it's own soil.
And can fertilize with blossom and leaf.
What would that be like for humans.

Universal Green Mean Time says there's valley
That's the honest truth
But in a different zone there's a road to commuters
To the bird a lake for to fish from
To the woodsman something to climb over
To the Great aunt, a home
And to me?  Something beautiful and honest.

Universal Greenwich Meridian Time says there's forest
That's the honest truth
To the businessman cord wood
To me? somewhere trail
To commuters roads may be windy
To flowers TUCKED
or maybe not, maybe they're in tops of trees.
For the flower of evergreens overlook all
And can feature fair abundance.
What would that be like for humans.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Light of Life is the Spiritual Side to Believe Within

If one sees past the black mirror
And into pasts shurled with sheep
With futures flung about but crowding.
Might we look to stars emplaced?

For star light is the height of civilization in a way
Beside power, beside money, beside respect... all nice
But should I really be complemented on how I wipe my nose?
I could really put up with those and more in surplus
But suppose I could get by with less with my own friends

For we are the light that shines in heavens sky above lit up
Materially feeding the world, metaphorically feeding us as butterfly
We light upon the flower of power with our woman who knows
That we aren't much longer for this world, if something doesn't give
If we continue eating this fear, and strife, and lives fallowly led down death's corridor

I want to live, and having everything I could possibly want, am left alone
Out and down... ignored, isolated, and mitigated by shores of eternity
With a few words pounded by the sheer vastness of spiritual worlds surrounding.
I have my poetry, true, and like my body, lead/leave me to new worlds abounding
Upon shore's of galaxy's abounding by the touch of button
     like I merely dreamed of happening
When downloading from Omni bbs back in the days of slower
    than cats' yawn network halls that crawled
And did not fly, though they sing, and still do in country woods
     if truth be told to you.

And with these few words,
     I can imagine a world few have seen beyond Star Trek television scenery
With these few words are all the connections,
      minus all the connections for there's only one said
And next to infinity, another infinity will always rest
And another infinity unseen till there's enough unknown
      to put to bed that we just don't know
As though... we didn't see.  But we did, you and I, we saw the light
      from yesterday
We view the looking glass from behind minds beyond
      black mirror and cloudy light.

For we dream, and in dreaming forge futures for fusion reconciliation
A peace with water, a peace with food, a PEACE with work and love.
And if we could truly live anywhere, we would,
If we could truly do anything, we'd try,
If we could get along without fighting, we'd get by.
For the quintessential thing we compete for, is time.

If We Were Faster Than Light

Our patience runs out like oil onto Texas landscape
It gets burned up, it gets dug
Our patience is wasted like spent nuclear fuel
It gets pooled, it gets fooled
And nothing is done with 700 years of energy independence

And our patience is like solar panels
Passively waiting, passively fueling
Like tree or leaf of pretty flower
Or succulent fruit of yonder tree
They green and then ripen and then they're gone for a year

But the sun both inspires and leads the way
With it's material light and spiritual sway
Maybe today, Maybe today
Or maybe it was yesterday said
That tomorrow's adventure laid up amongst stars that played
With dazzling faster than light I can see said star heights.

But I float, and in floating see no dazzle, see no height
I just am, like fusion, a dream faster than light
I just am, and what's more, I am the future
For I am... the past, and insightful hast the only lasting light
Except for any of those that might pass the doorways of eternity

But that's irrational, they don't exist, "but, I only thought them exist!"
But they're real... and everything is indeed connected, both future and past
And all those that's that you'd ascribe to happenstance as exact as you'd recall
If you'd dreamed at all the view of what you do and hope and dreamed for your all.

We are an ecology that likes adventure
Not a bug happy to crawl one inch in reverie
But we might be allotted the same fate, except we communicate
And we hope and indeed dream farther goals than supper for ourselves
A dreaming supported by those that do and want and dream of nothing else.

As I, crawl and dream for others
I'd share with you
We need a breakthrough, we need fusion power you.
And you, and you, and you.  How can I help?
Shall I write my congressman? I can do!
Shall I write the president?  I can do!
Shall I make homebrew for the celebration?  Anytime!

Oh, shall I pray for peace on Earth and one electron powered fuel.
It is closer than you think!
We are closer than I think!
Hooray, I let myself knew!
Now you!  Online as fast as you do!


For we've been out of answers and solutions for quite sometime.
As Americans!?  Booooooooo

Friday, March 27, 2015

I'm Having a Smile

They, them, Mr. You Know Who
Ms. Revise anything she wishes,
Dr. That Locks
And child that surmises...
Tell me, I have low self-control.
WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE!
Low or High would mean I have some.
Fact is I don't feel like doing anything.

Don't wanna move, don't wanna sleep
Don't wanna purchase that shiny thing.
Don't wanna help, don't wanna hurt
Don't wanna guard someone's purse.

I think I may borrow your volition for a day.
Though the world makes me sick when I participate.
And what for, to have another cow?
What might I ask did you do with the last one?
All you acting like it didn't pass done.

No, it isn't perfect, there is no perfect.
So, I don't need to do it again.
Your expectations are yours, so live your own life.
Follow your own intuition.

There is no perfect.
Not even a norm
There's that shit they harass you with
And the crap made storm
Write your own future
Surmise your own day
And get plenty of rest
So the spirit may play

Fear not the dead
They haven't a body
And leave my cow dread
It isn't friend snoddy.

But the magic has returned
The signs have come back
Though the post got removed
We're shining through lack

So good news to all, I ain't having a cow.
And if you happen to read this
Well, try subscribing, But maybe you have no control.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Cash Out

It's about you.
On me.
It's about all the jasmine things we could do.
Or think.

It's about you
It's about me
And inside my head
The world views three
They're stealing all my golden ideas
And re-pross--ing

It's about you
It's about me.
And wondering when you'll finish looking
And get with me.

It's about you.
It's A-BOUT me.
The movie they're making
Makes us- two, Three!

It's been about you.
It's on me.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Waiting for my Coffee at Five in the Morning

A box within a box like Russian dolls
Human shaped and each painted I drive up road
Park at the square plot and arrive at my box
I go in might park my jacket, take off shoes
And feed the fish in their square box if it's early

Otherwise I might watch the rain
And listen to it strike the box, eternally
Dripping from round world and sky and collected
Will fill any box easily and for the money.

I don't see them, the square walls or rectangular furniture
It's like a white page behind the text sitting still and quiet
Ready to rip apart when the first bomb drops
Ready to become empty when your heart rips apart

Maybe that's what happened for life is hard sometimes
Someone grieving destroyed all the round houses
Someone pained burned the last round car
Someone poor begged to death

Probably fearing, someone took rosey valentine and ripped it all up
For it was the only black text written on an indifferent page
And they needed everything to be all right, that is they wanted nothing else
But to just turn back time.

Makes you wonder about left-handed people.
Like as in, where'd they all go?
They got blamed for no reason at all.
And that was like half the population!

Sunday, March 22, 2015

If I Were to Publish

Books democratized, volume of line under line
In Imaginary time in dialogue with an author
Uploaded and printed, spit out and excited

I didn't get it on the World Book list
Or did I?  This book is online for every retail shop
For a price discounted a lot
From years I put into making and explaining
What exactly goes on in my head.

Explained and realized recursively 'till all the recursions
And I, looked at each other and remarked, "that's fine",
Leaving me standing with my thoughts in typefont.
Leaving me peacefully quieter and excited and no longer vying
For my imaginary mind.


Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Upon encountering S. James Gate

Symmetrical string theory is Time with a capital T
It is the non-material science The programming of existence
That corrects the codes of probability and encodes reality
In material worlds of mostly space
And string theory indeed exists, at least within speculation of imaginary time.
That in-of-it self only leaves Time itself left to represent
Because science has proven matter mostly emptiness.

And it does exist, for math is real
Einstein saw the atom through equations
Feynman changed worlds in simple construct
And Reloaded math for practice and practical apps
For changed worlds and through changing whirls
Of Atoms spinning and action winning
The probability that the world exists is probably True.
And with that be true to you.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

What is your most important dream

My most important dream is an idea
You know... that idea.
The one I revisit throughout the day
The one I write about at night
It is my dream, and sometimes,
I lend it to dank world muddled with water
And sometimes I place it in the dry sun on some summer heat wave
The earth baking with a dust that settles on drying lip

It is one filled with hope
But I dream mostly of safety, anymore.
Quiet conversation in privacy of curious peers
Sitting usually, and so I dream while awake
Of Galactic Stars throwing off lifestuffed dust
That I eat in cooked red-meat from country farm

And I dream of the worlds of the highways
What it means to zip up the pockets so one can fly
But my hands and my mouth are in there
My feet
And I greet few, similarly zippered in trip passing farther

But my favorite dream isn't cinnamon horses or apple orchards
But strength to survive this hard life, long enough!
Of all things, huh?  I want to live...
So that I might dream something wise, one day,
And then the next, and the next, and the next after that
Rather than peddling and watching worlds turn Impersonal and Quick
But blooded and heartfelt just like those cinnamon horses
Just like those apple orchards of amber roses and flowers of deep time.

Monday, March 2, 2015

If a Fish Were True

A man and his tool is a new evolution
Planned and planed worlds are functional expression
To wit the fish with fins and lateral meridian
Swim the topography of water in ease, perfectly
Balanced between genetics and environment till disease or famine
Or predation test and stress and/or end being.

It's body is an ecology of flora and fauna
His cells growing on him as much as is him
Forming organs that coordinate
Systems that concatenate
Habits that facilitate
And brains that think and feel what it is to be fish.

Its body is an ecology, Much as your house
And city sprawling around and surrounding
Or forest or prairie or desert oasis
Or planet or solar system or cluster or galaxy
Each with their unique paths in life.

Ecology with such definition, could mean environment of life
Which more often than not depends on other living beings
And tools and tools and tools and tools
Like fish and their fins and guts with bacteria
Themselves, too, are an ecology
Wherein life begins with little cognizance
And whole programming from nucleic acids.
For our environment is/of life, that is the world we swim
That is the world that visits me when I visit the grocery store.

Tools of enjoyment and escape
Tools of work and construction
Tools of protection and destruction
Tools of health and wealth and production
It is all the same, these are the wings we fly with,
As fish swims with fin and eye spying a playful gain.

And the planned and planed world?
You wouldn't like it.  It wouldn't fit in a box.
And if you somehow managed to box it up and put a label on it?
Most everyone would say, 'I knew it,' then ignore it
For food, and get to working and loving their world.