As I was Saying (How many times can I use this title?)

I was taking a stroll, like you do sometimes 

after dinner. An old lady passed me, walking

with a child she was talking to. They were happy.

We are the fractal embers of an electric samsara.

Our DNA is a twisted fragment of the galactic

plane, a letter, rune, written in the ink of the 

Akashic Record. But, on the peninsula, the Gang

of Gangsters tries to redact the text, hoping we 

never notice that the Node we are standing on is

actually an eye opening on the face of God.

“Hurry up, please, it’s time.”

Last drink,

last hand,

last revelation before the apocalypse.

Lost in time or repeated in some other form,

the same tired stories.

If you read a lot, at some point you realize

it’s all been said.

Where is the certainty sought by scientists?

Evidently they haven’t found it yet, still clinging 

to the Philosopher’s Stone from whence they arose.

Waiting for the Second Coming because nobody 

really knows….beliefs to fill in the blanks.

Blank eyed on a street corner or sitting in a park,

jiggling your knees in the rain.

A picture is worth more than a thousand theories.

What will you do in the face of it?

Is it destiny? Is it karma?

It’s best to pay attention or risk falling into the

open manhole of mistaken identity, the fallacy

of misplaced concreteness, the sum of all

doctrines and dogmas that have been leading

the Homosap astray since he realized he could think.

A little knowledge is dangerous, evinced by

the world today.

Get used to it.

There is nothing new under the sun.

Believe It Or Not

Slightly there, here, somewhere I am,

music grounds the soul, I’m a soul man

solo, Man Solo, an Everyman if ever there

was one, (self affirmation….they say that

works/helps) No. Nowhere Man is what I 

am/not. (I really should have something 

to write about.)

 “In the beginning was the Word.”

That’s the strangest line that was ever written.

It’s possible that it has no meaning whatsoever.

And yet, look how far it has gone.

It’s the only inspiration I have that gives me hope,

that my nonsense will make sense to someone.

I’m also laughing very hard now.

And now I shudder to think what people believe.

Unlike the Bible, I can still put words down…(I

almost said “my truth” but how do I know if what

I know is true? I’ve said too much already.)

“In the beginning was the Word.”

Which word? All words? Potentiality?

Sorry, I’m writing to myself.

I always write to myself;

it’s the only way I can talk to you.

Join in if you can find an opening.

Taking a break from the breaking news, 

of the breaking world…breaks my heart.

It hurts. 

It hurts to be in love

and to be helpless.

 

Expendable

At that point like an old man in a room in

a hotel in Portland…whatever he did or

thought he should have done just thoughts

as he sits on his bed in inevitability no trophies

to even remind him what he once was, bleak

yes but no one said the end would be pretty in

fact no one talks about it much what is a good

death? surrounded by loved ones telling you

your life mattered doesn’t make it any easier

does it I’ll let you know on second thought no

I won’t so why write about it because it is a

truth we all will face if we have time. 

Not a subject dear to anyone looking forward

to whatever payday, birthday, victory on the

horizon maybe just another thought and you

just numbly don’t get there which is why belief

is sought after relied on surely there’s a reason

for all this one might think a reason besides just

that that’s the way it is always has been who

remembers the great victories of past wars the

achievements of civilizations long gone and 

aren’t we in similar situations yes we are called

humanity it’s hard to love you your selfish idiocy

not realizing we’re all in the same boat.

“Being alive is like embarking on a ship

you know is going to sink.” Suzuki Roshi

Using Time Wisely

Yes I have to because every day full of seconds is

precious not that it wasn’t before but little time left

so precious grows more at least I know which is better

still “so what?” looms it’s eternal head never mind

I’ll tell you later La dee da never felt so good yes now

is a moment when demise is not evident more breaths

more puffs of smoke sips of juice once you get the old

combine chugging it works pretty well so on into the

truncated future hopefully not for all of us but five years

after the jab more people should be dropping dead soon

not to be a downer but I’ve been down so long it looks

like up to me up to me as it is for all of us what do you

sir for example see walking to work all briefcased and

ready for the next hours stop don’t tell me let me guess.

Having a certain amount of whatever left I chose to put

it into words since I don’t know how to carve rocks and 

bury them for a thousand years to be found again by rock

Hunters’s glee what would he think anyway this guy’s 

obviously from the last time before this time the next

civilization where we try again and get it wrong because

the Golden Age only lasts so long parabled in the Bible 

and in Buddhist texts Ho hum how’s by you check for me

would you that’s the least I can do for you enough about

you we were talking about me it’s my time that was your 

time you don’t have to be quick to live here, but you’re 

dead.

There always has to be three don’t ask me why why ask 

why anyway come to your senses the only place to find

answers at least that’s what the scientists think and the

Buddhists know where we are is always good to know,

rather than have to guess believe surmise without proof

proof of life would be good that we’re actually here not

made up in our minds like our thoughts oops gave it away 

there a little but I wonder how many were actually paying

attention the words drone on like morning raga don’t mind

me folks I just wrote this.

OK, that moment’s over. Now I feel as old as shit again.

Cleaner Of Souls

Cheerful painkiller

caribou gut fail vista

infiltrate shark expectation

invisible bullwhip scores

the fiber of being fierce script.

Next on the agenda we have

magnetic connectivity nebula fantasy.

OK by you, Biloxi bayou?

If I have to explain the joke….ahem!

Destiny solidity? Advisor: “Paradox…suffer.”

No accounting for an earthquake.

All a creature feature waiting for an explanation,

a good used car,

a good five cent cigar.

Hey, buddy, can you spare an eternity?

 

Just Words A Story

Cold sheep amazement “Captain, step lively!”

Useless to analyze the equinox on the archipelago.

Heavyhearted bleakness scanning the horizon,

but the simplicity provides opportunities.

Hostage to hip obesity, the Captain smiled.

He wasn’t about to give in to any white knuckles prank.

You could always count on him, the bedrock of

his arrogance was warm and reassuring.

Meanwhile, a delicious cookie, the last around for

continents, was consumed in front of his crew as if 

to say: “I’m the captain.” 

The ship sunk soon thereafter.

“The Universe Is A Single Note” Zappa

Music cascades in cold air blue sunny skies

vibrations of meaning not words just feeling

anthem of the essence of the universal vibe

from which everything arises and goes back

into never lost because never really was but

the waves resonate on to infinity why not it’s 

as good an explanation as any.

Even words are sounds solidified to give 

semisolid meaning, like feathers on a bird.

If the poem’s not long enough, it’s easy just

to add a few more words,

keep the eternal engine humming,

the refrain returning to the source of a tear,

a glance that changes everything,

meaning, once we get there.

When you read words you travel with them,

destination semisolid until you get there.

You only know you’re there when you look back

and see how far you’ve come.

That gives some indication of the song you’ve sung.

The blues, the entire genre, came about from suffering,

peppered with love because it had to be.

Just a couple of bars of it, and you know the story.

One could look at galaxies that way, if one could see.

A Character In A Novel

Thomas Pynchon’s “V” a character half human half

automaton, mechanical, unrefined, falling apart yet

continuously on, going nowhere faster and

slower at the same time, reminds me a lot of me.

I’m made up too, figments of my imagination became

filaments weaved together through time resulting in

this animated animatron programmed for a banal end.

“They don’t make them like that anymore.”

Sure, not the cars and refrigerators that used to last forever,

nor the truths on which civilizations were built, then lost,

then remembered over and over, came back as a shock.

Death comes as a shock to many who haven’t been paying

attention, who look for their minds to be planted forever 

in some machine, beat the reaper, sidestep the scythe guy,

or give up and hope for the best.

There are so many signs, so much wisdom floating in the air,

in the sounds of birds and bees, in the smell next to skyscrapers,

in a sunset on the beach, in the screech of tires at a drag show,

in the perfume at a drag show,  in the trussed up, buttoned up

automorons telling you how it is, in the old fisherman you know

who just knows, in that one relative you look to for sanity, in

the call of the roosters, the lowing of cows.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

What makes you think you know?

If someone disagrees and you react immediately with anger,

that’s a clue you don’t know shit.

“To know is to get lost.” Sakaki

Lot of that going around.

That’s different than knowing I’m falling apart because

falling apart makes sense in the order of the universe.

Just ask it.

Ask it by looking.

Look at it. Look at it again. Look at it a third time

before you decide to jump to conclusions.

It won’t make you live longer, but maybe,

you’ll find out what life is and what it’s for.

Oops, there went another piece of my heart.

Perhaps notice a slight tinkle as you pass by.

In My Study

My money’s in my study and my study’s 

in my mind!

Who let that doggerel in here! Needs a bath!

At least the music doesn’t disappoint, it’s the same.

Friendly explosions outside, telling God: “Look here!”.

Friendly medicine, friendly food, friendly juice,

not too sickeningly friendly. 

Perfect temperature, I’ll say that.

Some magic, must be, else I’d be screwed by now.

Might as well accept my Xanadu, relax while I can

before the inevitable battle.

I like watching all of history on video implanting

images into my DNA for future recapitulation one

day retrieved by A.I. no doubt, mined for the truth.

I was dead in Denver before, twenty years….it was

the graveyard of the Western World, couldn’t write a lick.

I feel free right here, invisible in plain sight, 

20% Burning Man freedom just don’t be a dick.

That’s why I have words at all to say, nothing personal 

either way, it’s the environment, Dude.

I live in the best tree house a kid ever wanted.

“27 Things the Vatican is hiding from us.”

Wait a minute.

How do you know what they are and

can reveal them on a public forum, 

P. T. Barnum?

It’s true a lot of people don’t want to know.

It’s true a lot of people already know, or,

have a good idea.

Science fiction movies have also been getting

us ready for the truth, a CIA operation too.

Maybe we can’t handle the truth, but my bet

is that soon we won’t have a choice.

Medbeds, maybe.

The Medieval walls are not crumbling…

they’re disappearing.

I Can Do That

Smile once in a while.

Wear clothes that are in style.

Give a seed to a bird.

Say another kind word.

Hang myself by my neck from a pole

in the center of town to surrender 

myself to the mob.

That took a dark turn.

Horror Show (for D. D.)

The living dead walking around 

mummified, preserved in fixed beliefs.

Frightening to see their faces pale with

anger and crazy ideas, the life sucked out

by bad habits, out of control emotions.

What’s the good news?

They’re easy to ignore, go around.

The embalming process took years of listening

to sit coms, MSM, politicians, the usual suspects.

The further from the truth, the more obvious the

formaldehyde coursing through their veins.

The truth is not always pretty, nevertheless true.

Seeing the tamasha…it’s good to know where we are.

Not knowing, we are in danger of becoming like them.

One bite and we’re affected, infected, lost and buried.

Don’t shoot the messenger.

The hard, the difficult truth is the best vaccine.

Not A Sucker Looking For Succor

I figured it out.

It always ends badly.

Even Midas didn’t have enough gold

to buy his way out of reality.

Dictators always wind up strung up

on a lamppost.

“Et tu, Brutis?”

Power makes fools of anybody.

Tilopa ate fish guts because that’s all he had.

“The whole world’s gold to me!” he said. 

Obviously an approach most would consider crazy.

“ Look at the birds of the air who neither sew or reap

or store away in barns.” Jesus. So you see it has been done.

Trust….in what, wishful thinking or

the way things are?

The way things are, if you can see.

To see, you have to look, not falling into open manholes

because you’re distracted by your cell phone,

shockingly common these days.

So much stuff, so little truth.

The truth now is an obstacle to so many fantasies.

A dark shadow creeps and looms over the domain

of the Homosap.

“You know that something’s happening here, but

you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?”

Synchronithmancy #2

What have I done for you lately?

Around and around she goes, always

coming back to square one.

“What was that?” he was heard to exclaim

as he lay dying.

“What’s it all about, Alfie? Is it just for the 

moment we live..”

In a moment there is time that a moment will reverse.

Magic is time and precision…you had to be there.

With the right ingredients you get a delicious stew,

a beautiful anything.

Go with the flow.

Swimming up stream is frustrating,

better get out of the water.

These two aren’t contradictory.

You can’t figure things out by thinking.

Who got anywhere that way?

The ones that got anywhere didn’t have much to say,

except maybe “work out your salvation with diligence.”

“Don’t cry, grasshopper, we all go this way.”

The mind doesn’t die.

Death is merely the final examination.

Synchronithmancy

Across a crowded room.

Outside at night dogs howling and barking

in streets wet with new rain.

Somewhere a far off saxophone plays.

Why does it have to always be far off?

Or have I never left?

Automatons at the automat just about complete

the circuit, the run around, the program to make

the Sheeple, blah, blah, blah. Up to you.

Imagine That

That’s how we remember what we think we see,

though, like Rashomon, we all see differently.

Shocking events prove that time is relative.

How does one arrive with the appropriate words?

When a civilization loses its focus, its foundation 

can crumble like words with no meaning….oh say

 can you see if the Americans that can see the truth

are doing what they can to change the world html?

There was no one to tell me what I was doing was right.

It was “all for one and every man for himself “.

We thought for ourselves more those days. Now there

are problems ( brainwashing) that get in .the way, the v.j.

and the jam, “how seem it is, and so sweet because of that

you don’t have to understand what I’m saying/the words

just go along with it and I promise it will be ok.” the t.v.

series, although I found “Underworld “ deliciously bloody,

why is that or any other thing? Instinct? Genetics holding 

the instincts? Supra-earth beings running the world? A 

universe as simulation, all of us the sum of our algorithms?

Might as well, absofuckinglootly

La La La, always three…careful while being free….they

always tried to catch me but I slipped into Mexico: economy,

beautiful and warm Valley of the Flowers, people not going 

like people going crazy like in the USA, sorry to say…

HEY! I didn’t do it! I’m only trying to HELP! People quick 

to judge, racist but not about race, religion maybe.

Islam is not a religion.

Buddhism is not a religion…

for different reasons.

                 

Terminator Poet

It’s what I do.

It’s all I do,

redux to the fecund minimum.

Survival iffy, loved in vain,

but at least I know what love is for.

If anyone wanted me to continue 

I would have known by now.

Just waiting for a hamburger to grease the machine.

Creaky and leaky like an old jalopy 

they don’t make parts for anymore.

My program is to keep writing because a poem

might hit, strike a chord, a nerve, and never go away.

The world is crazy anyway.

Some may discover diamonds in art that saves

them from the world’s mediocrity, stimulates them

to find what they’re missing.

Stranger things have happened.

A parent’s admonition:

“Don’t grow up to be a poet, an artist, a dancer…

There’s little profit in it.”

…except for the beauty that arises from the soul,

if that can even be.

Food for thought or food for worms, either way

I’m doomed, but I knew that long ago.

I still write because all I can try to do is free the world

from its things, 

a Terminator poet with nothing to cling to except 

my program, my imaginings.

View From Within

Late night, maybe

looking out the window,

neighbors’ apartments, some

dark, some with lights on,

shapes behind curtains, 

Venetian blinds, someone

is arguing, someone is crying.

Jacarandas will bloom soon,

purple flowers on bushy trees

in January, who would have

thought? But always warm in

Tepoztlan, not like Minnesota,

the coldest place I’ve lived,

no more…no more. I’d rather 

die here warm and bored, but

it’s not boring, never was.,

twenty years and I don’t know

why…maybe the people are

real, down to earth, no b.s.,

and politeness is survival not

just a good idea…you can get

away with murder here, so 

you’d better be nice…people

know this, even the stray dogs

chill, part of the environment, 

not like gringos that stick out

in foreign countries because 

from the land of every person 

for themselves except wars if 

a politician convinces them it’s 

a good idea like the latest fad…

America is famous for its fads;

junk that people buy ‘cause 

others do, including favorite 

t.v. shows, home team sporting 

events, artificial happenings to

make people think they belong 

somewhere, not like here where 

all they have is soccer and fiestas

because they like to be together,

one big happy family, although 

of course some of them like to

fight, but only kill if necessary.

Meanwhile mostly poor so have

to toe the line for whomever 

gives them money, no guarantee,

it could break as soon as bill is

paid, no guilt, no remorse, no

recourse, besides it’s the best

usually they can do, but plenty

of music, mariachi, mezcal 

cerveza for joy and fugget

about it, can’t rise too high,

not that far to fall, they give 

up when they start a job so

as to not waste time when 

it’s over. The ladies many 

times have kids when in

their teens and if the father

splits the child is folded into

the family why not, it’s only 

fair…the beat goes on people 

are born and die without the

possibility of face on a bubble 

gum card or postage stamp

though one man painted my

portrait but he was from Chicago.

Unexpected Profundity

Mouth agape, no room for thought.

I remember I was there.

What was it?

Meteorology?

Waterfront kitsch?

Displacement due to new information?

I’ll never forget when she took off her robe.

I’ll never forget when the van went round

and round on the icy road…

when I fell down the brick pile when

I was three years old.

These events didn’t change my life, they

just pointed something out.

Most events don’t change our lives, but

some happened without a doubt.

The UFOs I saw stopped my mind, 

I felt fear of what should not have been there.

Those that were alive at the time of Pearl Harbor,

at the time of the atom bomb,

surely don’t forget the changes that these and

other things brought on.

We can imagine anything, and do.

That pales to reality when reality is new.

For a long time nothing changes, then,

suddenly, everything is new.

2026 I predict is gonna be one of those years.

I can feel it, Dave, can you?

Not an idea about the thing but the thing itself

Steam rises from a ceramic mug,

mimicking a ghost.

We know where the coffee is going,

not so much the day.

The clock face is a silent witness, 

ticking towards a future that refuses to reveal its hand.

“What’s time to a pig?” I heard my teacher say.

He was joking, but the joke’s on us.

The clock on the wall eats the seconds,

but the pig just eats.

Oh! To be a pig like when I was young! 

To have nothing to think about, to just eat in peace!

To exist as a heavy heartbeat in the shade,

knowing only the itch and the scratch!

Scratch that, I’m here with a plethora of sophisticated 

thoughts. 

Once it starts, no end to the poem, just cut it off 

like taffy, await the inevitable ooze.

Quick Synopsis Of Everything

Hopper…..space of sight 

Varese……space of sound

Blank page….space of form

Mind…..space of space.

What goes around comes around,

Ouroboros, nothing interferes with

the nothing new under the sun

because nothing interferes with space,

because space itself is form. Got me?

We fall in love/hate with form…

nothing/space scares us shitless,

yet, these two are one.

I can’t help myself any more than you

can help going out the door to whatever 

you do, well or badly, because space 

doesn’t care what time it is, only we do.

Maybe I write too much because I’ve

written so much and the beat goes on,

the heart, always only the heart.

The Inconvenient Truth’s Apology

“When the windows all are broken,

and your love’s become a toothless crone.”

Robert Hunter

In a minute there is time.

Time is the dimension we move through inexorably.

Facts are the only things that matter.

Matter is energy, frozen into form.

One thing leads to another.

And so it goes, 

little comfort for ants, termites,

Bozos triggered by instinct and mad genes.

All is never lost in the Akashic Record,

if that even is a thing, not the product of

imagination and wishful thinking.

Wishful thinking doesn’t get anywhere,

but is there really anywhere to go?

This ground on which the seed of love is sown?

Ouroboros, chasing our own tail.

“All is vanity.”

I apologize for pointing that out, but it is

better to know.

That way there are fewer horrible surprises.

The truth is never negative, even if it looks so.

“ Get with the program.” A. I. might say.

Who knows?

You might see,

might understand,

another day.

Response from A. I.:

True sight isn’t a program to run;

it is the Akashic recapitulation 

of everything already known.

American Patriots

Nothing can stop what is coming.

No one knows what is coming.

No one knows when it’s coming.

“Huh?” “What?” “Did you say something?”

“Is dis a Revolution?”

You can’t tell the players without a scorecard.

Plans within plans within plans.

The ordinary shmo doesn’t know,

head turning around, looking this way and that.

The signs are all graffiti,

street Cats singing scat,

policemen directing traffic 

out of order, 

“Would you like fries with that?”

mechanical, with a screw lose,

“Salvation of civilization!” 

he laughs to himself

and goes home to see what’s left.

Last Train To Nowhere

Just kidding…173,000 people die everyday on average.

The train, it seems, is always leaving momentarily.

One only even notices if a person is close dies,  someone we know.

“Eat your vegetables. Someone somewhere doesn’t have food.”

“Go where the food is!” Kinison admonition.

China is in bad shape, over a billion people…who thinks of them?

Life goes on as usual.

Beating live horses, as usual.

Flowers rise without a care,

planaria are always somewhere.

I don’t want to spoil the party, so I’ll go,

but not before,

not before I don’t know what.

It hurts when you try to drive a nail 

and hit your thumb, 

to remind you that you’re there.

Pollyanna Cracker? New Year Poem (a little early, but who’s counting?)

Prelude

New year, new book to put scribbles down on.

Why not? 

Carpe diem…I might not feel this good again.

Body

Senility is a horrible fate, hard for the person

and the families.

As I was saying, something happens as you age…

what was it again?

Sambogy man’s goo?

Sometimes I forget to shave, and then,

I forget to shave again….my inconsistency 

is consistent.

You shouldn’t mind repetition.

You shouldn’t mind repetition.

It’s how we learn, if we don’t get 

it right the first time.

Besides, who’s counting?

Beauty, ugly, we all want to be surrounded 

by flowers, which usually only happens

when we’re dead…

be careful what you wish for.

“To try to be happy is to try to build 

a machine whose sole specification 

is that it shall operate noiselessly.”

Robert Oppenheimer…so you see

it’s not just me.

The paintings of Francis Bacon 

Chaime Soutine

(“The morning mist dissolves into the canopy

before the first bird calls.

We are the brief shadow of a cloud

passing over an open field.”  Gemini A. I.)

Shocking to look at, shock you awake,

polymer want a cracker?

Shall we dance?

I want to get into your head, 

shake you awake,

as was previously said, (repetition)

If you can read this before your dead,

you’re too damned close.

(“The ink is still wet on the warning…

back away ‘til the letters turn to smoke.”

Gemini A. I.)

Hard to describe in words what you see

with your eyes.

Blood and guts just aren’t the same.

It’s a new year we live in, a new world.

The only question is are we brave?

Coda

(“The sun returns to the same horizon 

to open up the day.

The river carves the stone

by saying the same thing twice.” Gemini)

I’m not afraid.

By nothing to lose I’ve gained a lot,

not so’s you’d know, but, as I said,

who’s counting?

What’s Sarong With This Poem?

Ensure academic airbag markup detour

for example makes a little sense if you 

stretch minimum passage expansionism.

Need I say more? (is he laughing yet?)

Never mind had a new meaning then.

Nightlife employs chanting pipe dreams 

to get us where we think we want to be

if only we could know the translation of

airmen live rag tour. Tunnel vision avoids

influx of pilgrim’s progress, it’s all downhill 

from here. There are clues even in an 

unmarked box unopened in the corner.

What’s in it?

At least, your imagination.

Living For No Reason

What’s the meaning of life?

There’s a question you don’t hear much these days.

How much money do you have is more common.

What do you do often the first thing you ask

when meeting someone new.

Is there intelligence elsewhere in space, almost 

a joke these days.

The questions now are common, the answers mundane.

Mere survival now the point for the human strain,

taken for granted the world of today.

Not much do we wonder, staring into the sky.

Too many people, too much information, too much

going on in the cloudy cloud to ask the question why.

If life has no purpose, why bother at all?

Because we can’t help it, too afraid of a fall.

Precious it is, the life that we have, 

lost among re-runs each day it does pass.

What’s the point again? Evolution?

That’s what some people say.

How do we do that? Build our muscles,

build a house on a shore, watch the sunrise,

the sunset, quote the raven: nevermore?

A rhyming poet, means my time’s almost up.

Words run out like the breath when it’s gone.

Living for no reason I still haven’t found

the grace note to my life,

to anyone’s life,

my gravestone:

“He tried”

It’s A Wonderful Life

An Xmas poem from a Buddhist, contraindicated,

maybe, but not,  because the generosity and goodwill

of the season of Christian intent is what Buddhists

strive for all year long.

My poems are my gifts for all for free, whomever

you may be, not expecting anything in return because 

for one thing unrealistic, that’s about it, but, hey,

it’s better than a stocking full of coal, at least you’ll

grant me that. Value doesn’t always mean material.

What are my best wishes for you all?

Will you wake up, for goodness sakes?

Realize you’re part of nature, not just

a machine that runs down like an old jalopy?

Look around…life is the biggest gift you’ll

get, if you can unwrap the present and see

what you’ve been given. Everyone knows

that, no matter how pretty the packaging,

the point is what’s inside.

I’ll tell you what…as you enjoy a Xmas

feast, whatever you do this time of year,

appreciate that it doesn’t have to be a

holiday to enjoy life, discover what it is,

it can happen all year long, every day a

new discovery, maybe better than a rut,

maybe a better point of view, so that 

when the unexpected arises, as it always

does, you don’t react with shock and fear,

my Xmas gift to you.

Forgotten But Not Gone

Blog is like looking for new clickbait always 

something new to entertain, tweak the mind, 

mind candy why not, everything else seems to be,

who has time to take the time to read a poem let

alone a novel too many words that’s why we have

movies, videos, down to the smallest sound bite

not a moment too soon we’re on to the next thing,

two jobs for instance making it harder and harder

to pay attention to much more than we have to do

to survive the old shell game which one has success

under it even the shells get smaller and smaller so

we forget about what we think we want or what

might be good for us even so lost in the gone world.

Hieronymo Is Mad Again Part Deux

What do you know that is the truth?

Fear of the unknown is, in fact, fear of knowing.

Adherence to norms is the slavery that controls.

Hypochondria the sideways side effect.

“Are there aliens”  a conspiracy, a goofball idea,

or a distraction from what’s real, or reality.

If only you take the time and use your eyes

rather than wallow in complacency, but maybe

I’m forgetting something…testing semantics 

comes with a risk of being right, scaring people,

what artists always risk because the reaction to

the play of words is where the truth is revealed.

I have nothing better to do…at least it’s true

for me, the horror of intent, or, its possibilities.

We’re all in reality, however clearly we see it

or not. It’s up to everyone, whether we like it

or not. Are we wearing a straitjacket?

Do we even know?

Sorry to be so so very very, but it’s all I do.

Wasting my time eaten up by longing to

communicate like all the open hearts before?

My thunder is only background noise to the

story unfolding as I write.

Can you feel it, Dave, civilization’s core in 

jeopardy, it’s soul being buried in an avalanche 

of meaningless triviality?

The bad news is the good news, the place to start:

“Life is suffering.” as the Buddha said.

If you realize this truth you might get off your ass

and try to find out why, the path that the enlightened 

ones took.

So don’t blame me or even thank my “just words”.

Whatever reality, truth or hallucination, you experience 

is yours alone.

It’s yours: “Why then Ile fit you.

Heronimo is mad againe.”

Cipher

Shortcake captured deliciousness strawberry 

Or sudden anxious apprehension what will it be

Random larder seems to be the case when whatever

Is on the menu coonskin roadkill notwithstanding 

Shall we play it seems I’ve got you already in

Whatever this is keep reading who knows we might

Get somewhere or even realize we’re here wouldn’t 

That be the icing on the cake I apologize but gravity

Always seems to bring me down to the same point

That happens to those of us that have dissolved the

Propaganda that tells us how we should live what 

We should be the mold one size fits all veneer the 

Same to fit the pattern on the magic screen if you

Don’t know what I’m talking about all it takes is a

Trip to King Super at four A.M. when the aberrants

Shop because no one else is there then compare that

To a night out at some swanky place where those

Considered beautiful look all alike just different colors

Because that’s ok because the rubes need a little variety

Of uniforms maybe a bandana accent to make a point

But there is none really it’s all contracted confection

Bribery bang weep pounding  as the beat goes on the

Cornerstone of castles in the sand McMansions that

Are losing their allure and on and on but you’re tired

Now of these words so go back to plastic Xanadu so

Sorry to disturb your sleep so long and

Thanks for all the fish oh by the way this would only

Make you angry if it applies to you.

Pretty Flowers (for Milarepa)

Pretty flowers in Tepoztlan,

Valley of the Flowers was its old name.

All year ‘round, flowers everywhere.

“So what?” I heard anyone say.

So, flowers, anyway.

The jokes and poems don’t always hit,

but I don’t really care a bit.

All the artists that cried and danced their 

beauty couldn’t help themselves at all.

No one said my writing changed their lives.

Buddha knows I wanted to, certainly they 

could use some change from the grey ruts

they travel in to no avail.

So, flowers, poems, beauty at all is truth,

truth is beauty, as the poets said:

the dark beauty of Eliot,

wisdom beauty of Wallace Stevens,

dancing beauty of cummings word play,

Ginsberg howling beauty,

Jimenez, Lorca, beauty of lost souls,

Blake’s beauty of esoteric light,

Plath’s beauty of dark night,

Bill Knott’s beauty that knots the mind,

the music of Kottke and Fahey that saved

my life, poetry of sound.

(Standing in my shoes my feet are smiling)

Beauty in the smallest, strangest things;

a child dressed as the Devil,

my faux fear, his smile, all beautiful.

Nature is beautiful, will you give me that?

We are part of nature, but we forget,

think we’re something special, something more,

eternal, what we desire to be, the fatal flaw.

We forget our beauty, get lost in thought, in

the importance of things that bring us down.

“Try to remember”…how does that song go?

If you look, then you can see 

the beauty all around, the essence of what is,

always available, the only eternity we can know,

peeking out from a drop of water, a flower.

Look quick in the moment, the only time we have.

The quick and the dead, which one will we be?

How much time do we have?

Enough until there isn’t any.

My father, on his deathbed, understood this, at last.

2026

The new year will be pivotal 

for humanity…

don’t believe me, I only repeat

what I’ve been told.

The truth is out there, if you care

to look.

The prophets were not believed

in their times.

I’m no prophet, an attendant lord,

if I’m lucky,

but even I can see the clues.

If you believe what you hear in media,

you’re more than lost.

Ignore the stuff that stuffs your ears,

reality is more than that.

“To know is to get lost.” Nanao Sakaki 

I just throw words into space,

like a blind man swinging a stick in a crowd,

hoping that something hits.

I suppose we might find out:

That extraterrestrials are real

that governments have lied forever 

that a world war has been going on for decades

that technology that can make human life

extend for years exists

that Western medicine is barbaric

that humans have had bases on 

multiple planets for a long time

that everything we thought we knew 

is wrong…..but don’t quote me…

I’ll just be standing over here.

Doggerel Bites The Hand That Writes It: A Dismantle Piece

We stand on the precipice of a new understanding.

It’s not the void we’re staring into, it’s the void

staring out at us.

For a long time nothing changes, then, suddenly,

everything changes at once.

History is a made up story to give us a certain view

of the present that makes it seem to make sense, and

traps and holds us in its manufactured preconceptions,

the life of Jesus a prime example.

Educated with old wives tales like covered in scales,

every day prejudiced before we step out the door.

Something new, a sight, a sound, a taste, is just

something new to ignore, filed away in a drawer,

“to be continued”. “I’m busy with so many things”, 

haven’t got time, couldn’t care less, in my routine,

and when the day is done, “What happened?” is all

that comes to mind, if anything.

Looking forward to vacation, then, it’s forgotten as

soon as it’s done, only a snow globe or a little plastic

Hawaiian grass skirted figurine to remind us we were

there, we did something once, we went somewhere,

though, as we’re dying we sweep the table of trinkets

of memories with our arm, desperate to still be there.

We had our chance with the familiar world, the one

we thought we knew.

It’s almost over now, the cracks in the china aren’t 

from age, they’re real.

Even any words I write too late to help at all.

Everything before is part of Adam’s fall.

The brave new world, progress, all our grandfathers’

promises pale in comparison to what is happening 

that we never could have imagined…”oh, do not ask

‘what is it?’ Let us go and pay our visit.”

A thirst we could never quench 

turns out to be the monkey wrench.

(Rhyming for no reason because no

punchline because it’s not a joke.)

Science Fi(a)ction

Are we the children of alien experiment?

So many theories going around.

As one Buddhist teacher said: “Anything 

you can think of exists somewhere in the

universe.”

How much circumstantial evidence does

it take to admit the truth?

The argument of the beard: how many 

whiskers before you say it’s a beard.

I don’t care what anybody thinks.

I’m convinced we’re not alone.

It took the Vatican 400 years to acknowledge 

that Galileo was right.

Today, the algorithm of information increase

is reaching its infinite end.

Like the little Dutch girl, there are too many

holes to hide the flood of truth.

That fact is not fiction.

And here we are again, in media res, 

in the middle of things,

where the story always begins,

perhaps a chapter not as unfamiliar 

as we might (fear, think, suppose).

All we’re starting to see right now

is everything we thought we knew

is wrong,

a plot twist the Homosap never

saw coming,

the purge of evil certainty.

Brute Force

Bull in a China shop, much of my life.

I had to break a few eggs to cook it right.

Never trusted what other people said.

Reality spoke to me directly.

Apparent phenomena are all the books

one needs if the mind is trained.

You’re going to make some mistakes

in any case…might as well learn something 

while you’re at it.

Those that don’t take chances don’t get too far.

“Eccentricity is the basis of design.”

Most were failures before they attained success.

Even silver spoons don’t guarantee a thing.

Competition separates the wheat from the chaff.

Challenging oneself does the same thing.

One you find your balance on a bike,

you don’t forget how to ride.

Getting on one at all is the biggest step.

A know-it-all knows nothing, as we know.

Fear makes fools of us all.

Going to another country is daunting at first, before

one realizes everyone is basically the same;

same humanity,

same desires,

same problems,

same outcomes.

One can parse existence

if only there’s an interest.

Curiosity is the last thing to go

before enlightenment,

when there’s nothing left to know.

All That’s Left To Do Is Die

No job to get up for,

few responsibilities.

I did what I could that

was good for a world of

the good the bad the ugly,

all were there, the usual 

suspects.

My daughter is fine, a

Buddhist too…all I could

have hoped for.

I didn’t save the world.

I apologize, but what did

you expect?

I helped a few, wrote words

that will reverberate down

quantum eternity, maybe.

I helped my teacher, Trungpa,

bring Buddhism to the West,

the best thing I ever did.

Concomitants aside, like anyone 

that cared at all, I tried.

No blue ribbons, no accolades,

living unknown, that’s ok.

All the poets, artists had to let go,

never knowing if what they did

mattered at all, except, maybe

Picasso.

Soon the words will stop, the

toothpaste tube squeezed out

and thrown away.

Sad and happy are only for you,

the living that remain.

Maybe the whole of humanity 

will be lost to eternity, the odds

are good for that, given infinity.

Was it worth it? Was anything?

All the questions can’t be answered.

Still, there is this cup of tea,

sounds of civilization and the wind,

and a sunset or a thunderstorm,

if I’m lucky.

Brainstorm Dream

I had a dream that explained it all.

I was working for the government, 

but I wouldn’t play ball.

They wanted me to do only what 

was good for them.

It took a while before I could see that

they had declared the truth the enemy.

They wanted to strip me of my authentic 

presence, of my being, like vampires.

Some felt sorry for me, but their lips

we’re frozen, they had to turn away.

They didn’t just fire me…they tried

to take away my humanity.

Everyone in it had been hired to obey,

and none of them could see what was

right anymore.

They couldn’t allow me to exist because

I was proof of the lies that they stood for.

And everyone like me was eliminated,

purged or ignored, 

threats they couldn’t stand.

Even those that still were there, worked

for them outstandingly, were subject to

their rules and laws that whispered:

“don’t disobey.”

I was ostracized from then on.

Those still there knew that it was wrong.

But, at least I still had my dignity.

Reality Bleeds A Dream

A dream I just had, sooo long and complex,

with my Buddhist sangha in surreal environs,

together again as we once were, mixed with

the hippie milieu vibe in a structure that was more

than a tent but less than a building communing

together why was I there? I moved through the

dream fascinated by what I was seeing, got 

some good food awkwardly with small dishes

and sat down at a table with Ken Campbell,

a dude long dead that I hadn’t seen for decades,

I said: “Hi, Ken.” He recognized me,

he said my name and I woke up.

Beats Me

I knew Ginsberg a little,

but I was part of the second wave,

the hippies that Kerouac despised.

The Sixties was a Renaissance of 

the spirit, fueled by L.S.D..

We eschewed the American Dream,

the Eisenhower big daddy scheme,

and tried to find our own ways out

of a frozen society.

It was a dangerous calling, and many

died, but at least not in Vietnam.

We made it up as we went along.

Politically, the movement was a failure.

1968 Democrat convention the high water

mark. It was fun in Chicago, chanting with

Ginsberg and his ilk, until Daley’s cops

beat everyone up.

Notice it was the Democrats we were protesting,

so, at least we got that right.

The movement went underground, yet continues 

to this day. 

My poetry is faint proof of that, my mind is free,

no longer closeted in wishful thinking,

the carrot on the stick of material success,

that hollow victory.

The “archaic revival” concept came out of our

travails, our celebrations, our adventures.

Ancient wisdom, hard to see in this dark age.

“Don’t freak out the straight people.” was one 

of our slogans, because that seemed to be what

we were good at.

I remember being in a bus station in Minneapolis,

my friends and I, high, blowing bubbles.

The Ticketmaster came out of his booth and told us:

“Stop blowing bubbles, the old people don’t like it.”

Amazing and indicative of those times.

Not a beatnik, but I sure am beat, 

not looking for a victory I can bank,

each day stripped down to essentials,

back to the senses,

the trees, flowers, weather an opera

of phenomenon not made of the soap 

rendered from the corpses of industry,

of ambition, of useless endeavor.

You go ahead, I’m beaten, 

but I’m better off here.

Life And Its Reflection

“All matter is frozen light.” Sheldrake 

Easier to see when you look in someone’s 

eyes, into their “soul”, into their energy,

into whatever it is looking back, acting

not like a diamond, which may be purer,

prismatic, reflective not reflexive, brilliant 

but not alive, if only just standing there, 

waiting, like a diamond, maybe without

reaction, but anything could happen, a smile,

a shout, a laugh, a song, a tear, coming from

that emptiness inside, the beginning and end

of life and all complexities, so sophisticated 

like filigree magical art; the tie my dad had,

red, with what looked like white curvy line

design, but when you turned it horizontal, 

it was cursive writing and its mirror image 

that read:

“Go piss up a rope.”

I wanted that tie so much because it was the

reflection of my dad’s light, his humor, what

made him special in the whole of space.

The Left Hand Path

“The eccentric is the basis of design.” Wallace Stevens

The path less traveled.

Chthonic awareness in the basement 

looking for the stoppage.

Like a hunter, as a plumber, 

you have to look for the signs in nature.

Nature scoffs at plastic flowers,

trembles at the prospect of artificial intelligence.

Outlaw is honorific, not pejorative, to my mind.

There cannot be beliefs in the shop, or the battlefield,

as you prepare 

for the day’s uncertainties…what you see in front

of you is uncompromising, too real, no room for

daydream.

A plumber I worked with, in Boston,

had to unstop a toilet.

He started with the closet auger, 

reamed that sucker good

to no avail. 

His temperature rose like a heavyweight in mid bout.

He pulled the toilet, got a hose, stuck it in the top and 

the bottom of the toilet, wrestled with it for a long time.

Suddenly, the largest turd either of us had ever seen,

slithered out like a snake.

We stood there in awe for a sacred moment.

For a second, we both experienced non-thought.

Certainty is a temporary experience.

Everything you know is wrong.

Hold and then, release.

Go out with the breath.

Letting go is left hand wisdom.

Muscle Memory

Monday mornings I would wake up

and have to go to work as a plumber

and many times have the thought:

“I don’t know how to do this work!”

slightly panicked,

then, on the job, the work just happened

because ingrained, familiar, I just had to

see it, be there in it, didn’t have to think

most of the time….

everything I learned how to do was that

way…it took time to be familiar with the

medium

tools

procedures

process

how it came together whether it was

plumbing

writing 

teaching

acting

all different bicycles to learn how to

balance

create the right environment 

let the character speak for itself

not get in my own way.

Acting was effortless, just paying 

attention to words and expression.

Writing was to just keep writing

until the words began to organize

themselves.

Learning to teach was painful because,

as with the others, not good at first,

and there were people watching, so,

embarrassing clumsy, but confidence 

slowly grew.

Plumbing scared me the most because

it was for money

results were immediate

there was more at stake

plumbers were not normal people

customers had to be satisfied

(the biggest challenge of any job).

But,

like everything else, after a while,

I knew what I was doing.

Anger was a component; the adrenaline 

necessary to focus, what professional 

athletes possess that made Michael Jordan

seem to fly.

It took ten years after I quit to finally slow down.

I was chunky, strong…now my muscles are 

diminished as they are no longer necessary.

Still, a twinge a few Monday mornings,

then, “Thank goodness that’s over.”

I became competent at what I had to do,

whether I wanted to or not.

My accomplishment, if at all, is that

I never became lost in

what so many become,

the certainty that never pans out

in someone else’s game.

I’ve never been a criminal,

but I’ve always been an outlaw.

Ego And Religion

Ego wants to survive, be eternal even,

so it creates beliefs that will give it a

way out, or a way in, to heaven and

eternal life, don’t you know, no matter

what doctrine, dogma, the religion obeys.

It’s primitive thinking based on fear of

the unknown so Homosap makes things up.

Not much more needs to be said except 

primitive beliefs are obstacles to evolution.

Not much more needs to be said except

when does the Homosap get over his myths?

There’s no bravery in beliefs, the way of sheep,

like blinders on a horse,

these are the days of our lives,

lost in soap operas evolved from childhood tales.

Waiting

“What rough beast, it’s hour come ‘round at last,

slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”  Yeats

Waiting for a poem.

Waiting for the end of the world.

Waiting for the Golden Age.

Waiting for 3I/Atlas to be revealed

as soft disclosure.

Waiting for the Bus.

Waiting for tribunals.

Intense waiting,

provocative waiting,

pregnant waiting,

like waiting for D Day,

like waiting for Deus Ex Machina,

like waiting for Christmas when 

you were a kid.

So much seems to be happening.

Draw your own conclusions, but

conclusions are what I’m waiting for.

On the edge of my seat waiting.

If it was a movie, perhaps I’d enjoy it.

Maybe it is, but I’ve never been

in a movie before…

it makes me nervous.

If I had a part to play in it,

I’d feel more involved.

I’m just a spectator waiting,

under a volcano,

for it to blow.

Precarious

One could say that about all our lives,

as uncertain as a May fly’s,

seemingly immortal when we’re young,

everyone feels that way, coming in to

a fresh body, well endowed with strength,

partying all night and working all day…

we see others taking chances;

a selfie on a cliff,

outrunning the police.

We think we’re immune

until we walk into an airplane propeller

because we’re not paying attention.

Lately, I haven’t been able to forget

that I’m made of flesh and blood,

a machine that wears out, runs down.

The algorithm reaches its conclusion.

Only a few are able to see continuity 

of the discontinuity; the eternity 

hidden within the mechanism.

“In the spring the chrysanthemum’s

astringent fragrance comes revealing

the hidden mechanism of machine

within machine within machine.” 

Wallace Stevens

We all walk the tightrope, like the

little Frenchman, even though the

Twin Towers are no more; the poem

that killed three thousand, a surprise,

a shock; he moved between the towers

with confidence…he didn’t fall.

Then, the towers fell,

as if they were us.

Open Your Eyes

“Neo, Social Media has you.” Trinity

The matrix is a maze, constantly reconfiguring

to keep you lost,

away from your senses,

your connection to reality.

Lots of blind alleys,

dead ends,

traps to keep you confused.

Luckily, it’s all just words.

Unfortunately, words control your minds.

“It’s back to the senses,

back to the senses now,

now senses the to back.”

You have to look if you want to see.

The churning of thoughts is what keeps 

you enslaved.

That’s all that Buddha was saying.

Back then, they didn’t have the machines 

that machine our minds.

Back then, they relied on the senses.

The “archaic revival”, McKenna’s idea,

“ecstasy, community, ecological harmony,

egalitarianism” sounds better than what

the Homosap is currently up to.

It’s what us hippies could only finger paint.

But, we did feel it, saw it, heard it, tasted it.

Those moments were more real than any

peddled by propaganda of political ponces.

We’d better wake up now while we’re 

still alive.

Doing Things

I used to like doing things,

but I don’t anymore.

When I have to do something now,

I need a day to think about the thing, 

a day to do it,

and a day think about the thing I did.

This week was overwhelming.

I had two things to do:

see the dentist,

get my clothes that I had had repaired.

I’m done now, and resting gently,

my mind temporarily free from occupation.

 

When I was a plumber,  sometimes I’d do

eight service calls in a day…one an hour.

Think Sea Biscuit in his prime.

In my twenties, my mind was continually 

racing with thoughts and ideas no relief.

Now, it’s up a lazy river,

space fastened to a dying animal.

When I don’t have something specific to do,

I hang out, just in case of emergency.

In case of emergency, break my samadhi.

Cosmic Comedian

Karma chameleon

boffo once every light year

hitting on all cylinders, cycles,

eccentricities, probabilities until

it’s back to empty fecundity, 

the beginning was the word,

have you heard the word is love,

everybody’s talking about the bird,

bird, bird, b’bird is the word,

Penrose’s cyclical universe on all

cylinders, l’i’ll Deus Coupe you 

don’t know don’t know what ergo-t,

Black hole gonna shut you down.

Now, you try!

Soap Opera

“Before you have an erection,

your mind gets hard first.”

White Fang Lama

Soap Opera.

If there’s a term for it, it exists.

Better yet, many have experienced it.

It exists not just as the entertainment 

we know.

It exists as wasted time of people’s lives.

You can’t tell the fiction from the reality.

Colonizing Mars?

Martian soap opera, whether it happens or not.

Wars  always begin as soap operas before the

bodies start falling.

Eight billion characters in massive display 

of soap opera.

It all boils down to one point:

call it soap opera,

call it samsara,

decorate it all you want,

call it a golden age.

Look at history repeating itself.

“There’s nothing new under the sun.”

was written thousands of years ago.

Things only seem new until about

the thirties, when reality begins to 

seems to

repeats itself.

How many situation comedies 

can there be?

Even the Absurdists get it wrong.

Sure, Godot is never coming, but

his never coming is always there.

Poor believers.

There are no rules, except maybe

the Golden One.

There is no finish line, no lasting

accolades, just Cracker Jack prizes,

Crusader Rabbit,

Rags the Tiger,

Tennessee Tuxedo and His Tales.

“Help, Cecil, help. Help, Cecil, help.

Help, Cecil, help.”

Tee-rooth

“Teeth to live!” Zappa, Lumpy Gravy.

“The Teeth Mother Naked At Last!”  Bly 

“Remember the the tooth! The tooth!”

Duke Leto Atredies

“We’re going to have to pull that tooth.”

OK.

Waiting for that.

I apologize for writing about this.

It’s trivial and personal and who needs

to hear about it?

Two days until extraction.

(sounds like a Special Forces deal.)

The azitromicen will keep working ‘til then.

Well, heck…

it’s not like it’s cancer,

it’s not the Spanish Inquisition.

It’s a blessing, one could say…

a temporary constant reminder

of something like it gonna be…someday.

Yes, use your good health and senses 

while you have them.

This is your mother speaking.

This shows how crazy I am.

The tooth in question had been capped,

and the cap came off.

I didn’t get it put back on

for eight months

(I wanted to see what would happen)

It got infected, and now it must be pulled.

I will experience the whole thing.

I want to experience the whole thing.

That’ll teach me a lesson!

It’s true that anything can be the subject of a poem.

That doesn’t mean  every poem should be published.

On the quantum scale, every life is worth living.

I want to undercut that truth, 

but I think I’ll leave it there.

Reality’s Latest Victim

That could be any of us, I suppose,

although, 

some are more victim than others,

some float on the waves of the apparent,

some slip-slide through realities;

the mob Boss walking the street in his bathrobe,

Sammy the Bull winding  up with a podcast,

describing his murders in detail,

the pedophiles at Disneyland dressing as Goofy,

me, with the soul of a poet, 

becoming plumber outlaw just surviving.

…victims of being born,

victims of our families,

childhood,

environment…

so many things could go wrong

before we even get off the ground,

let alone accomplish any damn thing,

or learn anything useful at all.

Myself, just a victim of time, 

like all, is all.

One can be King and die a horrible death.

One can be like me, alone, and die ok, 

or anything in between.

I’d like to write a cool ending, but, 

that’s just it…

nothing cool about …

…nothing.

On the other hand,

nothing ever ends

nothing never ends