Ramble For The Hell Of It

Abbie Hoffman, that magnificent manic/

depressive, gave me the idea…why not?

if I was on drugs, it might be better…

maybe we should all work about ten years

high on meth and then retire to golden

years…..maybe not…I came as close as I

could that I can tell you…worked at 

meditation centers for 13 years…that was 

no picnic, but it was a great feast..and…

I’ve got Nothing to show for it! What a deal!

Got more than I could even have known to

ask for! I can’t prove it!

I feel like when I was growing up in Winfield 

thirteen just not bouncing off the walls the

way I was then…all those years in between…

the cavernous smoke filled echoing concert

halls of the sixties…dharma center crazy 

wisdom of thirty years…Mexico and

unwinding…unraveling…slowing down…

stopping.

Everyone feels there’s something missing.

Buddhists call it enlightenment to give it 

a name. Whatever you call it, you have it…

it’s just “missing”…temporarily misplaced.

That’s so hard to get people to understand.

If it wasn’t already known to you, you 

wouldn’t feel like something was missing

Aimless Wandering

No agenda

no deadline

no intention

no path

no goal

no psycho babble

no confirmation

no obstruction

no projection

no destination

right here with the music

play it over and over

it’s never the same.

Clued In

Life is an open secret

understood by its clues

which are experiences

not concepts.

Even colleges, now, tho,

not very quick on the uptake,

acknowledge, give credit for, 

life experience.

Intuition, that razor edge,

that connects the seen 

with the unseen, is the

only book one needs

to learn how to read 

the leaves on the trees

the pattern of a waterfall

why the birds migrate early

why I need to sell my house,

move to Montana,

take up knitting…

the unknowable, 

the clean slate,

tabula rasa

on which experience is born.

White Sugar

burning not howling forlornness

this could be the start of

                                the last time

as the metal slips in

the rush of paradise

do it often enough

maybe it will last

everlast everlastingly

I’m there again

like when I was twenty…

The Shape Of Things

firstborn heaviest jackknife

into gene pool of lives

we were prophetic fifty years

ago and still are

“I told you so”

echos down time

each generation has to learn

the hard way or not at all

luckily, this time, it’s 

all been recorded, so,

drop some acid 

and watch some Sixties shit,

or Burning Man same thing. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jc17DqcA6Qc

Clear Spot

“Everything’s clear when you’re cornered.”

Trungpa

There is a point where words don’t help,

where we must rely on perception…

call it being born.

Language is merely afterbirth

second thought

double take

square two

                  useful only

                                   as afterthought

attempt to understand

what just happened

                                that becomes

                                                      history

(or her story)

                    “Nothing to see here, folks,

move along.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3ja9PWAR_I&list=RDUB6N4y1ZB-Y&index=2

Experience Machine

Is it human? 

Does it know what it is?

Do I pass the Turing test?

"I am a shape 

that can but eat and turd,"  (eecummings)

DNA is a program, soft wetware,

the sole purpose of which is to create

a self aware awareness device 

to perceive and record phenomenon

for the akashic (cosmic) evolutionary 

Burning Man mind....

but, 

maybe I'm getting ahead 

of the future now.

Machine describes what it does 

as well as how it is. 

We think of machines as not human.

We don't think of ourselves as machines.

Yet, here we are, 

walking around in our space suits,

acting as if we owned the place!

Some nerve(ous system)!

Mainstream Senseless Mainline

furious blurb blathering

clubhouse mentality smirk

offhand symbolic gesture

fragile abstract certainty

fancy apparatus appraisal

popcorn foundation apparent

a bellyful of getaway

strung out on hopium

Stoned Peony

We'd all be fine if it wasn't for matter,

because, then, we couldn't solidify...

never mind we solidify thoughts, 

see them as real,

it really doesn't matter!

You can't write a poem about something....

it either is that thing, in words,

or, it is not...that's art!

I'll writhe another poem out for you folks

soon, I promise!

Now, whom/whatever thought up flowers,

now, there was intelligent design...

and, they work!

Intelligence, itself, thought it all up...

there never was a being!

Corner of sunlight through skylight

on my desk...cool in red underwear nobody

can see me listening to old KGNU radio show

I did with J.J. still good to hear still healing

from being born just in time for death looks like.

Could be a long one...spaced out frag-ments...

even a part contains the whole...

...come in, Rangoon...

"there's some Disco fans in here tonight..."

Disco-nected from the 

Motherboard Motherlode Mothership

cross your fingers hold your nose and jump

like being born.

Carusoed

Cut off from an outside cut off from itself

social contract vaporized to chaotic content

too many words where nothing is said

no truer fiction than the one they’re selling

alone in a workplace bereft of meaning

alone in the crush of clamoring consumers

alone in conformity of opinion uniformity

alone with fifty thousand likes on Twitter.

The Purge of Evil. (2011)

For everything there is a season.
This is the time of hell on earth.
This is the time of the flowering of evil.
The Lords of Materialism have seized power…
It is their time.

The karma they accumulate from their evil deeds
Will rid the world of them for a long time….
They will not be reborn as human.
It is the time of the purge of evil.

Remain human!
Don’t get sucked into their trip!
This has to happen now!
Remain human! Remain human!
Don’t give into their bloody game!
What goes around comes around!
Cultivate compassion!
The leaders are lost in lust!
Their self-destruction is inevitable!

Church Bells

Quiet evening sans fiestas and dogs

village center murmurs whispers

no wind or distant storms

bells ring a steady cadence 

calm space echos of vastness

I wish this could be my last night.

Epstein's Death

That prick was the tip of the iceberg.

Only one other person committed suicide

in that prison in the last forty years.

Incompetence or coverup?

One thing this event proves:

what we can see is far far less

than what we can’t see.

Tormenta

I want a funderstorm!

I like lightning!

Blow me away, baby,

I can take it!

You want a plot line?

Figure out the sky!

History just a line storm

passing through.

Private Eye Land

On the background front,

who’s minding the store?

Throw a dart at a board…

believe wherever it lands.

Consensual catastrophe.

Genderification cornucopia.

Not enough attention span

for even a fad.

Ocean of frowning waves.

White squall of confusion.

It hit me like a coconut.

I Take My Place

Among the artists, social warriors,

(the real ones), dockyard Philosophers,

angelic bums, holy bodhisattvas that didn’t

seek riches for pleasure, but rather cleaved 

to their truths and worked for themselves 

and others to help bring peace and beauty 

to this world, giving up their wellbeing and

security for a greater awareness and 

purpose, starving in ateliers in Paris for their

art, hunger striking for justice, dying in

poverty because they wouldn’t compromise

what they were.

It's All Over Now

And now is all over it

in the blink of an eye

before it even began

not predestination 

no time like the present

never getting anywhere

always everywhere

forever square one.

Stone Pretty Pony

gladiolas as a matter of fact

impermanent if not plastic,

but then,

you get what you pay for

the pony stops here

ain’t going nowhere

riding done

Haven’t had my fill of the breeze,

fresh rainstorm…

forget about the rest of this

so called life.

Pretty Pony, manufactured, flaking,

abandoned in a warehouse,

just another dream.

We Pay For Love

From birth to death

we pay for love

all the heartache

good reason or not

we pay for love

listening to parents

girlfriend’s fingernail

taking a dare with our buds

playing the blues

making art

remaining alive

single room with old man

old woman knitting 

        next to a photograph

boy and dog…

looking…

knowing.

Dreamland

“You were expecting reality, maybe?”

“in my corner of the universe,

that’s not how things work

with your eyeglasses…..”

reflection in everything mirror

can I get a cigarette?

genetic exhibitionist

I’ll have what she’s having

back to the  naked question

is you is or is you ain’t

my objective correlative?

crisis in the feral neighborhood

when it starts making sense

at the risk of being, may I say,

I’ve never seen it put that way

unencumbered for the time

I don’t have to wait in line

Conversing in a reverie

day dream waking distillery

graveyard internment camp

stone orchard dirtnapment

dream

Neuromancer

throbbing gristle

selective mutation

counter cult

pantiless gulf

adorable sauce

barbershop doll

“he was beginning to think

there wasn’t going to be any….”

German wine

cuddly wisdom 

inspired astonishment

Disney happiness

kitchen sinking feeling

underneath the photo of 

teacup and little finger

monkey see monkey do

“he was used to that because

he had some funny habits”

all in a days grok

shopping at the mall

shopping at them all

a white maggot

earful

Hot Heads

(Coda)

Twenty four year old pimply male

with an automatic gun

Antifa, Democrats, MSM

The list is as long as you want it to be

this growth of the West the past 150 years

like a birth whose pangs are just beginning

hot heads in full contraction

symptom of coming attractions.

Huh?

desperate fork in the road

or, is it a rope? a snake?

ghostly everyday cardboard

ageless phantom appearance

can’t learn from illusion history

it’s square one

all the way down

Old Folks

Many old folks have a lot to offer…experience,

common sense, life stories. Our big handicap

is that we’re not very attractive…perhaps even

repulsive looking. If you see anyone’s heart, you

can tell they’re beautiful…but, it’s an acquired 

taste. That’s why I wear rainbow socks, 

colorful shirts and ties. And perfume: you can

smell an old person often before you see them.

We may not say much, not because we’re 

stupid or demented, but rather because we’re 

exhausted by useless chatter, and few young 

people are bright enough, interested enough, 

to ask the right questions. 

Take my generation. Luckily, there’s enough 

material, films and such, from then, so current

generations don’t have to reinvent the mandala.

Burning Man, for example, is just an evolution

of Haight Ashbury and Woodstock.

“What was it like when you took acid in the Old

Days, Grandpa?”

“Same as it is now.”

(they only get that after they’ve taken their first trip)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hp3TkNUqo_Q

Somethinglessness

All of my poems

are over after the title.

Why should this be different?

Drunk Diamond

Nobody’s perfect.

That should be the whole poem,

however,

some assembly may be required,

like,

don’t pay attention to that gaping

hole over there…

or,

how many more years does a

glazed doughnut have?

That’s the problem:

simple is simply better…

Occam’s tape measure.

I drank so many years

sober’s just as good 

the rest is coda