Let the Dream Be Me

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

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

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


We're being scanned again


by the black helicopters

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

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

The Devils and the Saints

The devil will convince
1. they don't exist

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

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

While the watchers wait.

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

in trying to cure
the mentally ill...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

such a mess
this market
this nature
this industry
this humanity

Touch With Ones Eyes, Feel with your Mind

The Door to Perception

Is a Fact

But let's relax that

and see the butterfly in a cloud

or the squirrel in a tree.

I crawl up on my porch

and nibble upon the choir music

It's in Russian, or is it

it seems hauntingly Human

with thought behind mask

Their eyes show who they are

and what they recognize in you

and what they say lingers and reorganizes

as each long drawn out syllable changes

into new door of perception.

I grasp, but I cannot reach the radio

I can see it, I can feel it but I can

can but touch, just barely brushing now.

I lift it up, but it has not moved.

Where then am I now

How is it I can fly in my dreams

How can I cry at betrayel while sleeping.

The mind grasps, it touches, it feels, weeps

regardless of my keep... locked away as it were

as no rare metaphor but that of imagination.

And so as that squirrel nibbles

and the butterfly sweeps across the sky

slowly pushing out into 3rd Street Brewery Front

the Russian choir on the Radio

speaks in broken English

about how glad they are to be on the radio

as Jack Pine interviews them with weepy mustache

and green eyebrows, having just got back

from the Fall Carnival and Wine Press Festivals

Each of which he flung in with the locals

to raise a fun time.

But the Russians did not grasp the English

the Jack did not get straight answers

And the radio remained playing wide open

As before the squirrel started nibbling

as before the butterfly soared

as before when you were young

and convinced the the shadow of the coat

was an escaped convict there to rob,

but it wasn't was it, and so you forgot.

Beyond, that, what is remembered is in your heart

with all the love and laughter of lives before and after

Open your heart I would say, and dream a little

for imaginations play is perhaps the only way

to pass through the door of perception

Fact is, Facts are half myth,

and the other half, but a fact.

In light of that, where then resides

your imagination if it is real enough

to touch the sky or travel space

or grasp the high mast of a sailing ship.

Your imagination remains where it has always been

right behind you, a little out of sight

but reflected in each piece of glass

meeting your gaze in ways you can see past

and through to the years at last-

    in youth and old age, we each choose to be aware of

as much as we like to be, of the world around

and yesterday, and three days past the camera lens

                         of actuality.

Turn slightly your attention to these prized words

wait a sec, then reach out and touch with your eyes

and feel with your mind the laced message

we have but imagination to undress, caress, and love

indoors of perception.

Bedun

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

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

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

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

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

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

If She Were

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

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

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

Something Blue and Something Remembered

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

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

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

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

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

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

Design the Frankenstein
and let it feed the world

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

Minor Opinion

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

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

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

Live



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

come on.
Wake up

The machine is stripping our garden.