White Rabbit

Going down the hole

you were born from

legend has it emptiness

is a revolving door

goofball pyramids of meaning

distract like magic from real mind

suave brainwashing glitter display

mesmerangues 'til we're hypnopied

the mirage is not that there is a man

behind the curtain...

it's the fact that there is a theatre at all.

Takin' Care Of Business

Self employed in the compelling glare

of the republic...aftertaste of birthplace

still haunts me in exile Mexico...slap-

stick-in-the-face; "Democracy!" laughing 

his ass off while lining his pockets..."No 

place like home!" underground bunkers 

stocked for years...

No insurance payout on Armageddon...no

retirement home in nuke zone. All you get

is Ponzi security...is chaos any wonder?

I just get up...write down ideas because I

like the sound of my own voice, I guess. 

Lew Welch coined: "kills bugs dead" 

for Raid ...made some money. 

Dickens got paid by the word.

Self Secret Sanctuary City

Out of the spotlight, limelight, out from under

the microscope in a corner of the world standing by

for next flare-up of terrorism-earthquake-radiation-

war watching on my computer/crystal ball the ebb 

and flow of events even ever leading inevitably as 

the  seers said because they saw clearly when we 

can't even see clearly what's happening right now, 

tho information pervades the electronosphere; so 

better to not get too.....anything....about it because 

even  the air you breathe is affecting the way you 

think (radiation) let alone what you hear and see.

Tepoztlan.

Sanctuary in sense of sacred because not too 

noticed (hidden in plain sight) surrounded by 

mountains...defendable...impervious...deflexive...

underwhelming...obfuscating...reflective...mirage- 

like-magic distracting attention like illusion of Circe.

Circe City circa  2017

"Hurry up please, it's time." Last call at the peyote

bar. Patrons don their feathers and bells preparing

to enter the fairy tale night. Bonfires have been lit 

at various places in the street...flickering shadows...

music of drums and flute...dancers with fire sticks

in long swirling dresses...it's been this way forever.

At least, that's how it feels at this moment...pretty

clever.

The Miracle Of The Loaves And Fishes

Jesus took the bread and 

fish from the basket,

finding more than anyone 

thought was there.

Every drug addict knows

this miracle: if you're 

desperate enough, 

you always find more;

like a path over the void that

appears as you walk on it

called life.

Crusofied 2017

Just no internet for a couple of days and 

realizing how much time I spend on it 

every day as extention of mind into world 

and now, cut off, how much smaller quickly 

it gets...sure, plenty of people fill these

streets with lives, but it's not as if 

they have anything to say just trundling 

along as they do from taco to taco in 

Mexico... (something else in the other 

someones' somewhere elses...)

...no, the internet, the hive mind makes 

us feel connected even though we're not,

so,

alone on a beach or in a crowd leaving  

from work makes no difference 

alone with the monkey mind looking 

for the lost banana.You can paint a face 

on a coconut, and, for some, it's as good 

as a relationship. Text all day and it feels 

about the same.

CERN-tainly-not

I'd like to see Cern

split my poem...

puon their gluon

the faster they go

the rounder they get

'til they get to the

"Big Zero", (not Coke)?

"The Big Note"

Ground Zero?

Big Bang?

but, is it "OK!" 

as in "Natch!"

as in square one

as in beginner's mind?

Nope.

They get lost in the always smaller

continuously unfolding rose

that has no center,

therefore

no conclusion.

(hint hint)

Meanwhile,

everything around is filled

with rose perfume...

...not that that helps, I'm 

just sayin'...

when you reach the center 

of the maze/mandala/crop

circle/universe/love affair,

                    there is

                          no need

                                 for discussion.

Poems

A Pearl Harbor sneak poem

an atomimic explosion poem

an evolitionalvolution poem

a universalquestion poem

an in-your-face-up-yours poem

a thanks for all the fish poem

a number 23 poem

a Jesus is dead poem

a meaning of life poem

a don't quit your day job poem

a secret wrapped in an enigma,

covered with quandary poem

"Who dares place these words

next to each other?"

Utopia poem

Armageddon poem

Oroborous poem

Big Bang poem

whimper poem

Sparkles

Sparkles, the electrician, was known

for his quick wit and lightning acuity.

A genetically enhanced chimp, he had

the emotional maturity of a seven year

old coupled with the intellect of a law

school graduate. If they stood next to

each other, you could hardly tell them 

apart.

They'd send Sparkles into dangerous 

zones because Sparkles didn't know

the feeling of fear. They figured he'd

find out soon enough, and they'd

get a replacement.

When Sparkles graduated from 

engineering school, he was aglow, like

his colleagues, with accomplishment, 

none realizing that their degree was 

just another nail in the collective coffin. 

Fear Based Assets

Dateline:

          Monsanto

California, 

           Thursday,

July 20, 2017

            the culture

has spread 

             like an epidemic

of grrrectness,

             seized power

over 

        the 

             simple 

                       minded

The Great-Brain-Washed...

tools to create awake society

replaced by assembly line ed-

ucation, socially engineered

stupidity and conformity...

as

    I

     live

           in

              Mexico !!!

laugh, folks, it ain't no joke!

Life Is One Poem

My life is one poem, why?

Because I noticed most of it

going by.

It changed from chapter to

verse, got better and worse, 

but it's logic never escaped me.

One poem, one love, gain and

loss, up and down, always back

to square one. 

Square one, in the middle 

of things, where we always begin

anew for this tranche of time 

between beginning less 

and endless, even as

my ass itches.

Four Questions Buddha Wouldn't Answer

"Do things exist,

do they not exist,

do they both exist and not exist,

do they neither exist nor not exist?"

"Maybe."  (the 33 1/3 Patriarch)

"How can it not know what it is?"

Supermarket aisle cart pushed by

amorphous blob of sentient protein

imagining that it's got a good bead

on things while it choses it's favorite

brands while it listens to Rush on the

smart phone (you can see where I'm 

going) in spandex and running shoes

thinking about Sunday's barbecue with

cousin Sandy and her kids and the new

pool they just got (it's cheap but it's all

they could afford) and they'll play lawn

darts and eat corn on the cob and straw-

berry shortcake for desert in the good 

old summertime the same as it ever was.

The Next Level

The next level,

as if there was a destination

somewhere we could finally

get to. 

Life is like Mario: when you win,

there's a little dance at the end,

and then

reboot.

The seductive/terrifying myth of

linear time...

that life stops at some point.

Did it ever even start, or, isn't life 

itself a dream?

When you finally get somewhere,

you realize you were there all along.

.

Bolero

Grey plaid messiah creation

frisky random tight business

fearless fate heartless bullwhip

on and on, a paralyzed groan,

awkward convulsion, 

glossy believer

blissfully milky

greasy portrait crackpot.

Here it comes; the next revelation,

the next sought for panacea,

the next secure trench forward,

the next peppermint patty picnic,

the next momentary adherence,

the next wise bazooka implementer,

the next neurotic imaginary birthday.

On and on; final ambivalence

of toothpaste world, off hand

apocalyptic smile, random

gesture of futility.

July 14, 2017

Started after a good sleep...met a new friend, 

Marc for coffee. Marc an artist and his Polish 

girlfriend new to Tepoztlan. Typical post 911 

intelligent young adult: a bit confused and 

looking for Utopia. A seeker for sure. Then, 

Sombre de Sabina and Juan Blanco, Bill, 

and Evelyn for old people rants and ravings 

over brunch. We always talk about the same 

things...but, what else is there to talk about? 

Volumes written about the Decline of the

West and still no end in sight! Enough already! 

So, we have our little fun and eat our nice 

meals while we speak about how corrupt

Mexico is, how crazy Gringolandia is 

becoming, in a beautiful outdoor gardeny 

setting. Perfect.

So far, so good. What's next? As the zen 

monk said:  "There's nothing next! This is it!" 

I should have known. But, I started, as we all 

do in media res, "in the  middle of things" and 

had to play catch up like everybody else. I 

suspected nobody much knew what was going 

on from the time I was very young, and that
was only reinforced and confirmed over the
years. Poets know what's going down, but
sometimes they have a hard time putting it into
words others will understand. Anyone who is
curious and looks into the nature of reality has
the ability to understand, simply, their experience.
But,  since pain is real, many get addicted to
trying to get rid of it via methods as diverse and 

seemingly contradictory as drugs, religion and

meditation. This is the default setting in which

most people live their lives. 

Why are some people curious about life, while 

others are not? Some people only become 

curious after some traumatic incident, such as

surviving a plane crash. Some, like me, were

curious from the start. Some never are. Even

scientists, living as they do on assumptions, you

wouldn't necessarily say are curious. Otherwise,

when a new, plausible explanation or theorem

arose, it would be more readily accepted, 

instead of being blocked and thwarted by 

tenured academics. Intelligence is not the same

as wisdom. Sure, we put a man on the moon, 

but what for, really? Simply because we could?

Seems so, aside from national political agendas.

Same answer, seems to me, as to why Truman

decided to drop the atom bomb.

War Crimes

The obvious redundancy in that term should be

considered humorous, except that it is taken as

truth: that as horrible as war is, there are acts 

against humanity beyond organized slaughter. The 

same holds true as euphemism in professional 

football in the term "unnecessary roughness"; 

brutality  beyond the garden variety. Who doesn't 

see war itself as a crime other than its
perpetrators, benefactors and beneficiaries?

The MSM is telling it like it isn't, and few are willing

to tell it like it is. Common sense is obfuscated by

trivial entertainment and meaningless public soap

opera. The war is for your minds and bodies.
Wasn't  it Liddy that said:"If you've got them by the
balls, their hearts and minds will follow"? If you kill
the head,  the body will fall, say the boxers. Orwell,
Huxley,  Leary, Alpert, Trungpa, Twain, McKenna
all beacons  of the truth of the world today. Tell me
why more don't see it.

The Ultimate Victorian

"Sorry, the lock's a little rusty...no one's
been in  it for years." The agent, Mike,
was  a genial WASP,  originally from New
York. Frank was looking for the  old Nob
Hill brownstone where he'd have the right 

environment to write his book about the
hippie scene  in San Francisco, particularly
that time in 1967 when  the newly spawned
acid heads had formed a kind of  communal
alternative to American  society that lasted 

until the media got wind of it and popularized
it and ruined it for everybody. For a while
there, maybe a year  at most, wanderers and
seekers could come to San Fran and find
free food, housing, medical attention and pure 

LSD. Once the spread came out in Life
magazine, every  near-do-well in the USA that
could read "On The Road"  headed there for
drugs, free love and rock and roll. That  put
the  kibosh on the scene. Frank was interested
in  trying to capture what the atmosphere had 

been like back then...smoky halls with organ
music echoing off the walls... people drifting
between endless vast rooms in various
altered states...chance meetings with people
that opened  up new worlds. He imagined De
Quincey in London walking in a fog to one of
his coffee houses, Baudelaire and Swinburne
in their drawing rooms...

"There...go ahead in...I left my clip board
in the car. Just be a sec."

Frank opened the door and stepped into
the vestibule. It  seemed as if he was
suddenly hit with a blast of...atmosphere
is the right word; as if he'd opened a hot
oven and instead of being hit with hot air,
he was hit with with an environment.  It
was like walking into a  Tibetan monastery,
or Chartres Cathedral or the impressionist
wing of the Art Institute of  Chicago for the
first time. He noticed the haze and the long 

windows, the yellowing lace curtains...then
he realized the haze was smoke, drifting
from ancient pipes and lingering from
cigarettes in abandoned ashtrays. How
could there still be smoke  there after all
these years? Then, he began to hear faint
music  from a farther room. He walked
into a vast hall with chaise  lounges on
the sides, several areas with couches
and arm chairs,  coffee tables. He noticed
shapes on some of the furniture that
looked like sacks or, maybe they were
mannequins, he thought,  until he realized
that they were actually people in repose,
asleep  or drifting. Why he wasn't shocked
to see people there felt a bit strange. He
walked further into the hall, heading
towards the music.  He went into different
rooms. There were a few people there,
walking around or talking quietly in twos,
but this also he didn't find  unusual. He
didn't interact with anyone, nor did anyone
seem to  notice   him more than slightly.
Frank actually felt relaxed and at  home, as
if he'd just gotten back from a long trip.
He had no idea  why he felt this way.
He just accepted it.

He walked into an atrium, a space with a
domed skylight and  many large potted
trees and other plants. A handful of people
were  listening to the musician playing in the
center. The ubiquitous haze  of smoke was
a bit more subtle. The performer was playing
a  stringed instrument, a lute or guitar, that
had a sound resembling  sitar. He couldn't say
if the music was creating a feeling, or if the 

atmosphere he was in was creating the music.
The notes reminded him of water falling.
They kept repeating like Pachelbel's canon or 

a theme in  Beethoven. 

He sat on on a bench at the side of the room,
listening to the music. A man walked by and,
as he passed, stopped and handed him a 

cigarette. He knew it was a joint and it seemed
natural to take a big toke. 

"What is this place?"

"Why, Xanadu*, of course."

"How did I get here?"

"You woke up."

Frank didn't know what to make of that, but he
knew he wasn't  going anywhere fast. Whether
what he was experiencing was real, or whether
he had stumbled upon some strange sort of 

living theatre, or if he was in a coma in a
hospital somewhere,  he didn't care. It was too
good to be true.

The Overwhelming Question

That phrase in Eliot's poem, "The Love Song

of J.Alfred Prufrock" is perhaps the objective

correlative for man's existential fear, and why 

so many people spend their lives trying to

avoid it.

"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'

Let us go and pay our visit."

Do not ask the overwhelming question: "What 

is the meaning of life?" No, no, measure out 

your lives with coffee spoons. There will be time

to contemplate life, once you're retired...once the

children are grown...once you've paid off the

mortgage.

Stay away from human voices, or, you''ll drown

is the fear. Stay away from the truth. When you 

die, they will place your hands like this...your

necktie rich and modest yet asserted by a simple

pin.  

Fame

If I became famous, 

I'd have to live up to myself,

which would become distasteful.

Success is no guarentee

of happiness...just ask

Richard Corey...

fame is a scam.

Ask Jimi, Jim and Janice...

ask Martin, John and Bobby...

ask all of Hillary's corpses...
these days, better keep your

brilliance as a hobby.

Talents you have they sell in

the market

you become 

the product...

Soylent Green:

it's not just food 

anymore.

The Knot Of Eternity

I wear a beaded necklace made by 

Huichol indians. On it is a Buddhist 

symbol, the knot of eternity. It is a 

knot that weaves endlessly into itself, 

mimicking the cycling of existence. 

I asked the indians if they knew that it 

was a Buddhist symbol. They said they 

knew, and that they were Buddhists. I'll 

take their word for it. Eternity: matter 

and  energy in endless dance.

The Jews wore the Star of David so 

they could be easily identified for the 

roundup. I wonder if that star was the 

same one the wise men saw that led 

them to Jesus? Might as well could have 

been. I wear the knot to be easily 

identified  as a Buddhist, for several 

reasons. One is that someone might

notice it, and then we might get into a 

conversation about Buddhism. 

The other reason is I want to be ready 

when the NWO takes over. Let's face it, 

we're all identified and tagged already 

by the internet. I've heard that "they" are 

putting colored dots on mail boxes, so that 

when martial law occurs they know which 

people to eliminate or intern. Maybe we'll 

all get symbols to wear eventually. So, 

when they see me, I hope the dialogue goes

something like this:

"Look, he's a Buddhist."

"What do we do with them?"

"I'm not sure."

If I can make them pause for a second, 

I might stand a chance.

The Sense Of A Poet

Swimming in the language pool

the poet tastes blood in the water

as if the ocean was bleeding

Guest Poet Daniel Dragomirescu

The Gibraltar Letter

Beekman, Plewman, Damerment –

those other three were shot already,

indifferently, in the back of the neck,

kneeling there – and burned;

she deserved better treatment,

“Our full attention,” Ruppert said.

She was, “…highly dangerous,” Ruppert said.

“Nacht und Nebel. Creole.”

He pulled her in. We stripped her –

Unterrock, Bustenhalter, Schülpfer.

I could see her armpit hair. Silky black.

Her skin smelled sour and salty.

He punched her down. She clutched:

hacked and filthy finger-nails

jabbed the air.

She bumped me; looked a split-

second into my eyes; shivered –

beyond me – as if seeing something

beautiful.

Beautiful – she was; no longer.

Spoiled now. Split lips, milky eyes.

She curled like a pale prawn

on the floor. He kicked her.

He could, couldn’t he?

Kicked her again, in the chest,

glittering her skin

against her loyal arms.

She yelped, snuffled. Blood leaked

through, and bruises clouded her flesh,

blue and yellow like thunder.

There was blood from her nose,

her scalp, dribbling down her face

into her snarling mouth. 

What was she saying?

I could only watch and not watch.

Then Ruppert told me to go –

“Get out.” What use was I,

anyway, to her: “Yoop, the poor fool”?

The door clanged, shuddered shut,

and, behind the reverberations,

like spume, came her stifled cries

and the smacks and the grunts. I stood

outside, quivering. Then a sudden silence.

The room exhaled and she was in there,

quiet. Ruppert came out.

There was smear on his pale red face.

He did not look (beneath himself) at me.

I put my key in the lock.

We left her in there,

naked on the concrete.

Next day, I had to shoot her –

we were finished with her –

through her pale dark skin.

No one helped. My hand shook.

Maybe she was only wounded. Maybe.

Her skin was heavy and cold,

twitching, bloody,

like some catch from the water,

I hugged her into the oven.

I had it hot already.

Dust of the others

was still in there,

like powdered myrrh, 

wafting.

The Scent Of A Poet

I put out my scent
anoint the internent

the wind of my life

the salt of my flesh

encrypted into words

a message in a bytle

on ocean of electrons

washing up on some

mind's shore.

Somethinglessness

The nothingness

    of being nothing

         is nothing worth mentioning

             except that I believe that things

                 mysteriously disappearing around the house

                     has something to do with it.

Valor

Valor

value

valence

standing up for what's right

integrity

integrated

into greatness

bravery of honesty

fearless openness

reality trumps illusion

eternal heart rules cosmos.

Valeur Valeur valeur vaillance

Défendre ce qui est juste intégrité intégrée Dans la grandeur Bravoure de l'honnêteté Ouverture sans crainte La réalité atteint l'illusion Le cœur éternel règle le cosmos.

French translation by Arnoult