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

Signs

I was looking for a sign 

that I was heading in the right direction

Today, I saw a white bird,

I don’t know if it was a dove,

on the ground in front of me.

In twenty years, I’ve never seen

one of those before.

Actually, before I saw the white bird,

I realized my whole life has been a sign

a sign I was a Buddhist

a sign I had been so for lifetimes

a sign that, in this life, I had been in the

right place at the right time.

Believe it or not, 

it has nothing to do with belief.

The signs, the “da”s are always there

for anyone to see.

“Look, and then, you can see.” Trungpa

You see?

(I know…that was a cheap shot.)

Question:

Someone hands you a piece of paper,

and stands in front of you.

You open it, it reads:

“Look up.”

What do you do?

Do you see?

The Whisper of Da, Reality’s Subtle Signs ( in collaboration with Gemini A.I.)

The world is always ready to speak to us,

if only we would listen: a loose thread from

the cuff of the day, a tiny beckoning tear.

The mailbox hangs from its hinges, a minor 

imperfection of wood.

If the mailbox hangs, the postman might be

afraid to deliver the mail to the waiting, empty

space where a letter of fortune could have been.

Our hopes and dreams hang in the balance, 

like the one forgotten button from our coat

that fell off and got lost.

To see the warning written on the wind, 

written on the cap that fell off a tooth,

the subtle script of fate,

is to catch the necessary clue before 

it’s too late.

Friendship with the world means

we have nothing at all to fear.

The Algorithm’s Song

The truth that moves on stage

is how the lines are made.

You have to read between the lines

to see the signs, 

the surface story is too clean,

a stage where nothing has been seen.

We want the truth, or so we think.

It’s different when we see it face to face,

a shock when suddenly we know.

The mirror cracks, the paint runs down,

the neat facade begins to shrink,

the Emperor has lost his crown.

What can we do, pilloried by what’s so?

Let go, let go, nothing to cling to here.

Tomorrow is another brave new world.

The truth that moves on stage 

is how the lines are made.

The Universe Is Cyclical And So Are We

Blue star kachina.

Hopi prophesy signaling the end of the age,

the beginning of the next.

3I/Atlas just turned blue. 

Just a coincidence, maybe?

But other signs are there:

humans losing their connection to the earth,

losing their connection to sanity, common sense.

Koyaanisqatsi.

So much is ending.

So much is beginning.

I/A….A/I….

you have to read between the lines

to see the signs.

Nature has a way of righting itself,

whether humans like it or not.

We have forgotten that we are nature too;

we come from nature, are part of nature.

You wouldn’t think it, looking at Kensington.

You wouldn’t think it, looking at a purple 

haired obese lady with an hundred piercings.

You wouldn’t think it, looking at the fields

in Ukraine strewn with corpses,

Gaza strewn with corpses,

human history strewn with corpses.

At this point, people might be surprised if

you told them there were times and places 

when people lived in harmony.

Harmony, in Japanese, is “wa”.

I was told a story when I was in Japan.

A woman worked for a company. She 

was very innovative, had many great ideas

to change the company to improve it.

I was told she was fired because she

upset the “wa” of the company.

Sounds crazy to us “entrepreneurs”, eh?

Nature has a way of righting itself.

Just another clue as to where we went wrong,

as it seems humans have done many times before.

Don’t worry, though, because there’s no hope.

The Kachinas take off their masks and we’re done.

Their monkey wrenches no longer wake us up.

The sleeping mountains throw open their eyes.

And So It Goes

Human experience hasn’t changed.

Life events, circumstances, concomitants 

are always changing.

People get excited when something new

comes along….excited or horrified,

and so it goes.

If you think about it, there is nothing new

under the sun.

It’s all a re-run.

Sure, it looks new, has that new car smell

that quickly fades.

Even if 3I/Atlas is an alien craft, we’ve had

every scenario of possibility already described 

in all the movies and science fiction novels,

which means it’s more than just a possibility.

Past, present and future are all within the mind.

What can happen and what will happen are

already happening…the clues are already there.

Seeds have been planted long ago.

Fruition is just a matter of time, like the Denver

Nuggets basketball team,

like Communists in the USA,

like Trump and the “plan”,

like where your mother’s drinking, smoking,

bad eating habits will lead.

“If you want to see the future, look at the present.

If you want to see the past, look at the present.”

This is what the wise men say.

Reality doesn’t care whether you like it or not,

like a parent that says it’s time for bed.

Things will work out better if one adheres to the truth.

If not, the inevitable will take a little longer.

In that sense, having cancer is the same as being born.

They’re both what happens.

If you can dig it, neither is a problem.

From beginning to end, it just goes.

Get on the bus, or be left behind,

meaning,

use your intelligence because no one can know

better than you.

Life Span

A bridge between two worlds

so long you can remember things

that everyone else has forgotten.

The time it takes to smoke 

a last cigarette.

A chance, an opportunity, whether

taken advantage of or not.

A journey, a tragedy, a victory

unfolding, a story for the ages.

The time we get when we sign 

on the dotted line

to be born.

Victims Of Circumstance

Every day the world goes on,

the beating of hearts and machinery,

to what end is always questionable.

It’s hard to read the signs….

no instruction manual.

Taken by winds of karma,

life sucks and blows with every breath.

until death, when we wonder:

“What was that?”

Living but not awake…

awake but not aware…

training  the mind itself used to be a thing.

Now training is only to survive and be

productive, like a bear in a circus.

More distractions; internet, social media,

that keep us from ourselves.

Nobody knows why, it just happened, 

fulfilling long ago prophesies.

Elijah’s chariot in the sky…

Ezechiel’s wheels within wheels…

fantasy or description?

Many have seen UFOs, including me.

No one believes us.

You think we made it up, like the Bible?

Give me a break.

It’s time to think a little bigger, or risk

getting swept away by the changes

coming to our relative world.

Algorithm Vs. Evolution

It sped up at the turn of the Twentieth Century.

Einstein’s work made Newtonian physics 

obsolete…science started to be on shaky ground.

Art gradually broke down the norms of the way

people saw the world.

Information distribution became constantly more

rapid and widespread.

The algorithm continually sped up, until 

machines were created (computers) that could

speed it up faster than humans could do 

by themselves.

“We’re entering the fifth dimension.”

“We’re entering a new age.”

“You know that something’s happening 

here, but you don’t know what it is.”

Advances in science that have made life

better happened alongside weaponry 

advances that killed humans better.

On the whole, the algorithm hasn’t made

people smarter or less self destructive.

Musk is a hero (ideal) that wants to colonize 

Mars when we haven’t figure out how to

manage the earth properly…that’s the ape

overreaching…not evolution.

It’s not evolution.

It’s blind survival instinct that will build

a bigger bomb if it thinks that will help it 

live longer.

It’s no more evolved than an amoeba.

Christ was evolved because he taught

compassion, something that the people

of that part of the world, that time in

history, might never have heard of.

They weren’t ready for him.

He scared them so they killed him.

Buddha was evolved and he taught

others the means to self evolve.

He said, back then, that by the time 

we are in now, it would be very hard 

to even hear, let alone understand, his

teachings. He said this time would be

the beginning of the Dark Age.

“Wisdom gap”: “the widening disparity 

between humanity’s rapidly advancing 

technological power, and humanity’s 

lagging ability to use that power wisely.”

(A.I.)

So fascinating, all these gadgets, 

all these possibilities, the shiny objects

posing as reality that distract us from

what’s really going on: the mirror we 

can’t help but eventually trip over.

Nothing happens for a long time, and suddenly….

…everything happens at once

world on the verge of nuclear war 

world on the verge of discovering

(revealing) aliens 3I/Atlas, baby!

Uh…I guess that’s everything.

When Is Enough Enough?

I should probably stop right there.

I’ve been writing for fifty years.

Certainly that’s enough.

Henry the Eighth ate so much that,

by the time he died, his body was

bloated and rotting.

He certainly ate enough.

The war to end all wars was followed

by a worse war, and the wars just kept

happening.

Certainly we’ve had enough of that.

Frankly, I’ve had enough of this life,

although it seems to keep happening.

We keep getting reborn because we

never get enough of what we think 

we’re looking for; separation from

space is the wind up spring that never

runs down and drives us forward

forever.

Even when we’re not, we’re trying to be.

Only Buddha had enough of the circle jerk

called samsara. When he passed into Nirvana,

he became space, our true home.

That’s enough.

Is It All A Game?

Is who dies with the most stuff the winner?

In that case there doesn’t seem to be many rules.

And, there aren’t many winners.

Day of the Dead and people get drunk and dance

in the cemetery.

If life is a game, Mexicans are in the bonus round.

Resurrection

Fortunate sun

dredging me up again,

more than every third day,

more reliable than Mexican electricity.

Alive again in the routine.

What did Jesus do the first 

thing that morning,

have a cup of coffee?

Might as well could have done.

All we hear about is the miracles,

as if that was enough to sustain us

for thousands of years.

Have any good resurrections lately?

No, but we have plenty of special effects,

A.I. videos, and you can resurrect them

again and again….forever and ever.

Ugh.

But I have chocolate cake,

music that sounds new,

and, I’m awake.

Space

Space is where the aliens come from

Space is where we come from.

Space pervades all phenomena.

Space is where we return to when we die.

Space is the “fecund minimum”. (Stevens)

Space is the cosmic potential.

Space is too much for our little minds.

Space is the same as our Big minds.

Having a body is a conundrum.

We feel limited by it, but our minds are infinite.

It’s hard to reconcile, takes effort to recognize,

realize space, but many have done it.

These are the humans that see the universe

in a drop of water.

These humans have become part of the environment,

not sticking out like a sore thumb

a sore head

a dumb dumb.

These are just words…don’t believe them.

Find out for yourself like Buddha did.

Believe it or not, space awaits.

“The truth is the most important thing.”

— Irvin Tischer

Tough Crowd

The brainwashed are a tough crowd.

It’s hard to make them even smile.

No room in their heads for anything

that isn’t already there.

Victims of amnesia as to what they

really are.

Amazing, really, that they don’t see

the truth staring them in the face,

like the Democrats,

like Nazis,

like Jim Jones followers into oblivion,

like all the cults that ever were.

A chunk of Americans are brainwashed 

in the cult perpetrated on them by evil,

corrupt social engineers.

People don’t want to hear this.

People don’t want to hear the truth.

Who even wants to read these words?

No one wants to hear me crying in the

wilderness of bewildering deception.

Question

They say the Dark Age is when

the truth is hard to hear.

Isn’t that where we are now?

Matter Of Fact

Sunny day, sitting on a rock, waiting

for the bus…I know where it’s going,

my rut, my routine, not heavy, light

like my life that floats on the waves

of the senses.

Matter doesn’t matter. It’s the illusion 

of solidity, the ground of confusion.

The words I write don’t become matter.

If someone connects with the words it’s 

the same as seeing a flower, really seeing

it for the first time, only materializing in

the mind.

Everything human starts in the mind.

Monuments are only expressions of mind.

They are the play of matter in which the 

truth is revealed.

The truth is not material, but it’s the only

thing that matters, 

like the Lincoln Memorial.

Life Is A Clue Called Existence

Clue to what, you wonder.

“What’s it all about, Alfie,

is it just for the moment we

live?” 

“Try to remember…” (how

does that song go?)

getting excited about

explanations

theories

epiphanies 

dogmas

doesn’t seem to satisfy for

very long, 

like junk food.

Some humans have found out 

what life’s about

so should you.

I’m not smart enough to even

maintain my own existence,

but at least I’ve discovered the truth.

That revelation will last for eternity

because it has already.

Soft Disclosure

“I hate to break it to you, but…”

Comey…Bolton

3I/ATLAS

The Blue Kachina

“I’ll be right back. I’m going

out for a pack of cigarettes.”

Catching Up

Starting to remember,

or, memory is catching up to me.

It’s all there in the karma cache,

in the DNA of which we only use

a tiny bit, the rest waiting to be triggered.

Meditation is the only way it works.

Nothing is ever lost.

Actions have inevitable consequences.

That’s why your eyes are blue,

why you always wanted to be

whatever,

why you have lots of love or not,

why you always had a longing

to go to Tibet like my mother,

though she never made it there.

Magically, I brought it to her, so,

it caught up to her.

Nothing is ever lost.

Please don’t believe anything I say.

Belief is spinning your wheels and going nowhere.

Catch up through the senses to where

you actually are, see the world for yourself,

not the picture painted for you by others…

it’s the only way to evolve,

it’s the only way to remember what you are.

Tepoztlan Redux

People aren’t crazy here…

if they are I don’t know because they’re smiling…

that could be crazy too.

(a haiku with too many syllables)

People here are transparent because they have

nothing to hide because they have nothing.

The old gringos I know here are crazy the same

as if they were in the USA.

I wear colorful clothes.

People know that, which makes me invisible,

invisible but friendly.

I smile at the children and they smile back.

That makes me feel ok.

That makes me feel I’m in the right place,

it makes me feel I found my spot.

(twenty percent Burning Man)

Everybody’s tripping.

It’s more blatant here, less purposeful,

not obvious to tourists.

There’s acceptance of the drunk 

passed out in the doorway,

ready to arise for the next fiesta,

which should be any moment now.

People are beautiful because not downtrodden;

poor but not afraid of poverty.

There’s something about the place itself 

that sustains life…nature giving people 

a reason to live.

Narcos seem to leave the place alone.

Even they know not to mess with a good thing.

I feel the precariousness of life here, a shared

experience with the people.

Tepoztlan is not like any place I’ve been.

Twenty years ago, I cried in the restaurant 

the first two mornings I was here.

I wondered why.

I realized, for the first time in my life,

I felt like I was home.