Upon What Tomorrow

My cat swaggers when he walks
and talks sometimes
and is aloof a lot
He'll roam off for a drink
and come back and think
Leap onto a lap
and knead my kneecap
then jump off
and beg to go outside
to chase birds and flutter byes
and occasionally chew the grass
The greatest thing is he has a twin
and another sister, once again

So those three
keep company
with sky and earth
and all our humble belongings
the woods and our pond
the snow and the long dreaming
as cars drag by like someone sweeping

the snow crushes the silence
packing it into your ear
so spring seems like a dream
and summer is a plane ticket out of reach
So one burrows deeper into that silence
'til imagination finally takes a can opener
and prys wide your head,
and spilt beer conflates all
into one spoiled wish or dread.
Then the wished for, appears
as Christmas heralds christ's calling!
life back into worlds embrace.
for Sun climbs back into face.
And that sunny winter day

brings not joy, but its caress
of remembered truth and beauty
now slumbering
in pitch of winter
under blankets upon both eye and ear
upon both sky and earth

can you taste life?
you have it
can you touch life?
you live it
can you hear life?
it is near
can you see life?
it's within reach
can you smell life?
It is within you.

How Goes The War

99 wages of war
more ways to die
99 times more than before
with a legacy of hate
with history written in blood
We have more words for war
than Inuits have for snow

But apparently I need to get a life
get a wife, get some strife in my sights,
and... slowly pull the trigger
Why?

Because I might criticize
a national past-time
which also lime-lights
what else, but violence

and in my re-education
I should hop up and down
shouting
I want to kill! I want to kill!
till the psychologist I'm talking with
starts to holler
I want to kiill! I want to kiill!
with me.

For our land was bought with blood
Our liberty is paid in blood
And our material happiness
is the pain of those
we close the door on to ignore.
And all the poetry of developing nations
echoes dying in our very own throats
while our hands bleed from making
a Halloween costume
for some anonymous thirteen-year-old
in America

And they're not priviledged...
We're just unfortunate, my ass.
When hope leads you to a better job
only to find out that dignity is a swear-word
and fair wages fled with trade wars
Only then do you realize
the scope of the hole you've been thrown in
left to live your days in misery
as long as you do as your told.

And how goes the war?
How goes Any war
...madly...!

Heaven's Gate

Football as a cigarette

poisons one lickety-split

as it feeds your mind's high

and depresses your low's low

So that as one slowly

becomes couch potato

Poor diet and exercise

quietly kills your life's health

Just like the cigarette

in equivalent numbers in the U.S.

Slowly your life's ocean ebbs

sucked into television's synthetics

'till life is unrecognizable

as we praise prowess and athletics

while we ourselves grow beer guts and barbecue pits.

(that will one day roast us!

by the mindless hoards of televisions

that overpower newscorps and prepaid programming)

And as we light up that injection sight

we pay millions to corporations

that daily... instill dependence and addiction:

to feel, to hope, to dream... of winning,

of beating all odds as preoccupation

of weapons of mass distraction

as excuse to forgo all solvent solutions

to real problems facing our Nation...

our lives and our wives and our children.

And as we absolve cigarettes of death

by new doohickeys of untested dependence,

We watch commercials that spiral debt

on credit cards and farm mortgages,

But that's not enough... football begs,

pleads! And Demands attention

On and off through day's tide

and under moonshine.

On the field we absolve football of violence

by teams getting paid and living through days,

While glamor and sexy cheerleaders parade,

mixing subtexts of sex and violent roleplay

But... that's not enough, cigarettes light up,

fog, and scotch pours to intoxicate

On and off through quarters of games

and during tailgate parties...

When's enough, enough, in the case of football?

When you've lost your shirt betting?

When you're gut starts to stick out?

I'd guess it's like smoking,

when it starts to destroy your life

and makes you a moody dog

from a lack of exercise and poor diet.

Real Men write poetry.

Life Worth Living

Corporations advertise their glorious salvation in programming
as unrealized or penny-wise investment in wants and needs.
A frugal mind realizes, one isn't really saving
if one is putting penny-wise in someone elses pocket.
And as advertised, you get your lies, at a savings of cooperation
for psychologists hide their smiles when marketing a product
and unrealized in minds embrace, are tactics spewn as vomit
As marketers appeal to domains in brains, to get you to open wallets.
"You have a choice," my shrink decrees, "one decides how far to take it."
But on the street and market shelf they're guiding you to purchase
and if you don't they slam your ass with void and empty dreams
Till they can build you up, and kiss your lips with another, "I am worth it."

They don't call it television programming for nothing.

And as we learn to ignore to yearn, we forget about the content
and then it's on to Superbowl fun, and another programmed profit
Our self-worth is programmed dirt we sift through for gold and gems
but when our identity is what we buy, people die with market fluxes.
The truth is we need to live, the beauty of it is.. we are
So when your sad, when you're blue, because your team is always losing
maybe get a life and turn off that advertised, fixative television
Read a book, write a poem, hell get drunk and mess around
for there's lots of dirt in worlds a turning that one can seek and find
before we pay to kill or slay our more precious mental vision
Pursue your dream, believe your hopes, and discover worlds' untold faith.
For life is to live, love, and to learn... in our patience, we make....
Life worth living.

As a Function of Gravity

myth and truth
combine into facts
as exacting connections
building philosophy
or maybe just perhaps
a bauble for a child
or tennis ball
(or poem)
As ideas connect
through the prowess
of our opinions
on what's economical,
efficient, and pragmatic.

the facts themselves
show little attraction
twixt one or another
as we sort and ponder this and that
which will advance the chemistry
of ideas scaffolded for growth.
Sometimes great lumps
of myth and truth form seeds
to spin a flurry of activity surrounding
like in controversy or good news
as a grey squirrel will orbit the acorn
or animals and watering holes
or Even our planets and the Sol.

And as we're herded through the corrals
of human history
we need only to look
at present circumstance
albeit with some fractacality
to unlock the latent connections in our pasts
so we may dream of a future and hope for a day
And love one another as shared ways
that connect the Heavens themselves
like simple neutrons and protons
manifesting the visible universe
by proponderance of face-melting stars
which they themselves are as commonplace
as the air we read
and light by which we breath

Atoms of Facts

Fiction and Truth form a nucleus
of any fact for discussion
and our ideas and debate
our opinions and feelings
forming clouds around
repelling but also connecting
to other clouds around
other nuclii of fiction and truth, forsooth
till building, we build a body
a philosophy, or societal opinion
The spirit of a nation!!
That can cut like the subtle knife
it is made from,
or may eat with chemistry,
Or perhaps to hold
as something cherished
by someone sweating
over a project of work.
For our souls are no less real
than the ephemeral bodies
they give intuition to.
No less real than the stardust
we coordinate...
built upon first principles
which themselves are combinations
of myth and truth,
which when examined are mostly empty
space within our heads
that repels assimilation.
And so pushing against...
we learn of Facts' existence
Like the definition of a word,
we learn of its meaning

from the outside

and somewhere, somewhen, someone
spun the fact with fiction and truth
till this day, they spin yarns yet
for us to tell tales of sunny days,
and keep warm by, on rainier ones.
And in that yarn shop
sheep are sheared for wool
and in a corner the wool is gathered, combed, and dyed
to give it charm, and is spun to make a thread.
And it is given to a weaver
and the weaver makes cloth
and tailors take that to bring
to the world- shelter and protection
from destruction of harsh elements,
perhaps to even look good
when cleaning out a horse stall
with sweat and muscle
or courting your girl
with humorous tales
that happened
"just the other day, I saw the wildest thing."
-VV

Mindseye Spying

A bird peeks from space
to gleam a pace of peace
and in its eye bespeaks
of galaxies in its wing
What yonder sight have ye visited
oh turbulent bird of heaven's grace
What scavengers of pride and joy
have you witnessed pandimensionally
in manifold travelling and sojourney

My soul speaks another joy,
one of the center.
My eyes spy another pride,
everything is nothing.

Will this ever feed anyone
oh great bird of distant shore
beyond myself?
Will I ever soar
beyond the center of nothing?

This great age of deluge
threatens with flood by endless raindrops
now falling since September.
There looks to be no end to the bits dropping
from heavens beginning onto whole worlds end
seemingly to push one way at first and then another.
There is little guidance to it, it would seem.

After Common Era, what ark will mate in harbors port?
One of quality to survive those stormy seas most likely.
And what glorious value will disembark:
when Gold doesn't buy passage,
when Guns can't secure seats,
when God won't supply fare.
A riddle is it not?!
And yet Noah erects it yet, even Now!

Sitting Momentarily Outside My Complex

I have a cool apartment I'm thankful for.
The running water, the refrigerator
the stove, the dry bed.  It all seems mundane,
But in the simplicity of it
I can work and play at living
though sometimes I fail at both,
and sometimes quite horribly.
But through it all, the sun sometimes rises
to shine on peace, Making it all worth it to me,
a little peace I can sit with and think
"Man, is that just beautiful or what.
Thank God I'm alive and there are people to share it with."

In a Problem Free Life

A horse, my kingdom for a horse
Pretty small thing, considering
they sometimes make dogfood
and many poor men may have one.
And yet, in such organized times
and highly controlled environs
as we have in modern lives
such a small thing, as...(anything)
CAN MESS YOU UP
like your baby pooping in a diaper,
And inside a little part of you dies.
A little part of life is unrealized.
But that is life!  The mess, the slop.
The uneducated edges of mindless drops.
So like a boarder, we must carve
what we'd like. from nothing.
In time we might end with something right.
And what with these silicon machines
dictating our lactating stations
as well as every other function of lives,
the memo was lost in the trees leaves
and the other half of society
stares bug-eyed at our problem
wondering how-in-the-world horseshit
caused all this.
When, these blasted computers were supposed
to solve it.

Brawn, Brains, and Beauty

The meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything
used to be like oil and its inky reserve
Dug for with laser focus
to box up in barrels for portable digestion
The great resevoirs of Earth Power
vacuumed, cracked, and sacked
for motivational speeches
by chemical robots preaching freedom.
In their growling voices they dictate our options
putting prices on our freedom
putting a price on their company
In any case as worlds are changed
for the worse from exhalation of C02
each time they start growling down byways
in every boring place and remembered days.
The chemical motornation produces climate change.

And new meaning rises like clockwork
upon silicon robots that direct all singing
and play and pretty much everything
replacing most all chemical machines
as engines of silicon drink electrons
putting too a price on their company
as our freedom in honest mistakes shrinks
where suddenly for the sake of COOrdination
how and what we're supposed to do
is dictated by unfeeling timing
of silicon clocks COOrdinating
and we no longer get to choose
Wherein, If choice is freedom,
then COOrdination is a form of slavery
as surely as bonds of routine and obligation
dictate that we have fewer and fewer choices.

We ourselves are a machine
more wonderous, mystical, and living
than anything hereto possible
producing CO2 AND COOrdination
within and outside our bodies
to escape the deep freeze
of poverty, crime, and ignorance
in self-important lives
and hypocritical lies.
Me, you, and everyone
deserves independence from these
to shine like a star-child.

When Worlds Turn

I look and see no one's looking
beyond the sea held within their wallet
As water rains from skies
Welcome to society!
Here's your checkbook, buy some smiles.
And the worm crawling in folded bills slowly eats his way out
from billfold into folded heart.
I caught him nibbling at my soul so I torched the little liar.
And all illusion fell to ashes leaving me drowning in an ocean
and weak to swim to shore where now I reside to live in captivity
by the local tribe of indiginents whom seem slightly more anarchistic
for having been burned by light once upon a time.
I spend my day slaving to explain I don't speak their language
I spend my day slaving to make the sun rise and the moon to set.
But still my fears that time is yet unraveling from fires started yesteryear
is consuming the rest of the world as I sit here gathering moss
and growing hoary with frost having been put here by the Gods.
If I were to Die, the words would be unwritten
and yet if I am to live, they aren't to be spoken.
And I could not even if prompted, by some will
that constantly fights progress towards that end.
This my life, is my punishment for remembering
the slavery from which I freed many
from the pit of darkness.
But, that too, is to be forgotten I guess
as freedom is just a memory as I live dislocated
on an island
that speaks strangely
familiar.

Open Letter to President Obama

Imagine a world so networked with silicon clocks and electronics

that a single man could coordinate a galactic government.

If we played nice with a benevolent dictator.

And if one man could do that,

as networked devices run banks and business plans

silicon coordination would shrink the effective need

for family size, and every other freedom

But also smaller and smaller groups throw

bigger and bigger wrenches

in well planned functioning

nonetheless somewhat blind

(as this is life)

creating perpetual states

of emergency

Already on news

were bombarded by grim hues

of planes crashing

and tracers in Iraq

Scuds in Afghanistan

or any grim act

or grizzly murder

or wolf hunt

And that's not even politics

merely coordinatation effects.

For man is a coordinated person

with brain and hand and eye

keeping track of time

Ah! like Silicon!

So combustion of silicon engines

are actually polluting with coordination

the very thing driving the machine

till global freedom starts shrinking

from atmospheres of stress

Global warming all over again

but not from extraction of fossil fuel

but from compaction of silicon tools.

Already Boston got locked down

Airlines are Airinoid

Gitmo another sign of the starry heavens

That freedoms are shrinking in Yuletide

and spring tides and neat lives

and every other kind of time

kept track by element 14, nowadays, sigh.

42 freedoms 14 lives

3 cats and two eyes

spy another catastrophic timeline

lagging behind the winning car

in this game of life.

28

The meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything
used to be like oil and its inky reserve
something slaved over to see light of day
something that could be cracked and seperated
for plastic, or fuel, or medicine for ones gettabout
filling empty tanks for renewed vigor
and lubricating easier days ahead.
but it's not like oil.

     Not anymore
The meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything
is like Solar, dude, Where promethean fire is limitless
and in hanging ten, only grows more power from preponderance.
something thats wasted now when stored too long;
meant to be used in convention and connection
for participation in economies.
Where a new day reverses climate change
by partners in the same knowledge surviving progress'
terminating robots and human follies
that march on in war against time.

Direction Zero bids me home
to avert catastrophe.
Welcome to the good news.
there's new meaning in Life, the Universe, and Everything!

The Shining Lands- Poem posted to Craigslist- Feb 1st, 2013

In Life as in all things
nothing,
gives rise to everything
Space cradles Earth


Earth cradles you
And within the humblest corner inside
resides your greatest strength
expecting nothing, saying nothing
Like a solid green prow
waving above emerald seas of trees

Go West and see
A gigantic land awaits beyond
setting sun and autobahn
waves of quantum and mores of possibility
Go West
where space awaits for rivers run of people
in country-sides green and gold
eager for exploring sights.

My eye, spies another time
where lives were simple,
where rights like my 10 amendments
which scintillate as fire in hearts.
Still, yet, learning to be free.
You, me, our feet-
which follow suns retreat, Go West
to where rest awaits for Sun's embrace
and learn- Nature's secret,
that time has geography,
and life has a face!

It's Been a Long Time

My wanderlust
mimics occupation.
Seemingly a dream
of new days coming.
For my soul's body
makes apparent
some of Life is genetic
in my understanding.

mimicking occupation
are children
learning by observing
practicing by play
until big enough for pay

Seemingly a dream
life is a beach
I crawled up on
from catastrophe at sea
onto isolated island
with mostly beasts
for company
with nothing to mimick
in occupation
except animals I perceive.

New days come,
in agony I weep
from silent peace,
gray days and black nights
haunted by figments
of light and shadow
playing across imaginations
as I listen
from the room with a view
to wide seas breaking
upon my shore
and rain pelting my roof
in my narrow harbor

My soul's body
is defective
but its all I got
and so I clothe it
in privacy to protect
and jealously guard chapt skin
This I must make last
for a lifetime
like the quart jars
swaddled in macrame
I refill each rain.

Apparently,
I could leave
anytime I want
but lacking RFID chip
under palm skin
grocery doors won't open,
tills won't ring.
Some people with ocular bionics
can't even see me
I have most of what I need, here
except people
And anyway,
I can't run away
from myself in any case
except by mini-vacation.
Me, always seems to catch up
whether or not I look back.
And the beer isn't completely shit

Some of Life is genetic
imparted by eons of evolution
of Man struggling with Nature
but also against Markets and Industry
as paths we trod determine survival
of both path and camper
whether or not destination
is truthful and beautiful
for our health, wealth,
ingenuity, and acceptance

Understanding this,
I sit alone
in comfort of radio
watching time lap
upon shores of wooded forest
from inside insulated box
with company of chickadee
and it's occasional calling fee-bee
as winter latches lickety-split
onto shackles of my cigarette.

It's been a long time since shipwreck,
and having learned to observe
I crawl up
on gray days and black nights
that last lifetimes, it seems,
broken only by mini-vacation
as a path I trod for survival
in shores of wooded forest.

In Language of Souls

A Lark harkens to the laughter inside
the thoughts and emotions leading to which instead.
We work and fork reality led, to peddle faster
down rolling hills laughing-


at least alive

and that laughter sharing our souls embrace
alights like starlings on branches space
There is no thing, no boson of fun
but the laughter and companionship
rolls round our head, in effusive
collaborative creation fashioned
a language of souls like trees talking to dead
a synergy, a chemistry, a synthesis of energy
in networks of language, Like English! we live

so starlings perch

though I should predicate
that navel gazing can take all day
just as one can poke fence posts in rows
for birds to arrange notes and chime tides of light
calling hours solemn or sparkled
A lark or a starling childs of morn

and poets pontificate


As ordained ministers of truth and beauty
in the houses of lords
like said masters of hawthorne
License granted by proof of effort
we marry truth and beauty
and divorce hate and war
Wishing Merry or Forlorn
to share a piece of themselves
Like said Starling in the language of souls
simply communing, simply us.