Good Evening

Lying in bed cool evening air

flowing through a relief and 

maybe some rain but the thunder

has gone away so maybe not 

but still there's relief and nowhere 

to go.

Whiskey Is The Answer

I saw it on a tee shirt.

The guy wearing it looked like he believed.

Maybe he knew.

All phenomena are vivid, pure illusion.

Why ask why?

That’s the flower the Buddha held up.

A smile was the appropriate response.

Going back to the title, when I was drunk,

I didn’t have many questions, only a few

good ones that I don’t remember because 

they were answered or they weren’t important.

The constant, important, intense questioning 

of my youth is gone, no longer there.

The military is right here, across from where

I sit, buying ice cream, luckily.

They have no reason for me to be a question 

to them.

“I’m just waiting for a hamburger, Senors.

I don’t want a revolution as I did when I was young…

there are plenty of criminals out there somewhere,

go there! Have fun!”

Drink some whiskey…you might find the answer there.

Don’t let fear keep you from the truth.

“When the windows all are broken, 

and your love’s become a toothless crone.”

It’s a claymation arising out of nowhere.

There’s always another door.

Listen to the dim/smoky light, the smell of

leather and oak and roses and death in the man cave.

A shaman sits near to me on the sidewalk,

not, I imagine, for no reason.

A black and red butterfly flew in front of me,

low, down the street.

An half an hour later, it flew past me the other way,

again low, close to the street.

Clouds peeking above the mountaintops.

That’s where the storms come from…

…later.

Busty McFlagstaff

Busty McFlagstaff had unfortunate parentage.

They were trailer park elite…they expected

Busty to carry on in their tradition.

Busty’s first name was actually Nancy, but 

when she turned thirteen, everyone started

calling her Busty.

She became a stripper that went under the

moniker of Nancy Smithhh.

She thought the extra h’s at the end gave

the name class.

It was good to have a few aliases when you

hung with the crowd she did.

She was very successful and opened her own

trailer park after saving her tips for ten years.

Her parents were very proud.

It was a friendly place, everyone knew everyone.

Nancy thought of robbing a bank, but she

hesitated when she thought of the wanted poster:

“Busty McFarland: Most Wanted Woman “

which didn’t sound bad when read literally, but

she knew it wouldn’t be hard to find her since she

had a tendency to stick out. 

The bullet bras she wore didn’t help.

Busty’s parents moved into her trailer park in their

dotage so Busty could look after them. All the people 

in the trailer park looked after them too.

There were a couple of drug dealers in the park that

everyone knew, and were stand up guys.

Having them there was a deterrent for other dealers

moving in.

The drug dealers came to occasional park resident

gatherings and were clean, well dressed and generous.

The cops patrolled the outskirts of the park at night…

they also had cliches they lived by.

In five years, only once did the cops come to her

trailer/office. 

They were looking for a run away boy, ten years old.

He happened to be sitting at Busty’s table, sipping a coke.

That worked out swell for everyone, and the cops gave

Busty an award.

After that, the cops called Busty before they came over.

Busty and her namesakes lived happily a while longer,

vanishing into the void leaving only an impression 

or two in the emptiness.

Theory

Dark matter and dark energy, which are only theoretical,

are said to make up 95% of the universe.

I bet those are a consciousness that keeps the ordinary 

physical universe together, continuously more complex,

leading to sentience and awareness separate and reflective,

invisible energy and matter naturally morphing with/into

visible smart matter….i.e. matter organically self organizes

and evolves to the point of consciousness of existence.

I’ve been wrong before.

Teleological

“What’s it all mean, Mr. Natural?”

“Don’t mean shit.”

“I did not gain anything from complete 

perfect enlightenment.”  Buddha

The Path unspools the ball of yarn until

there is no ball of yarn, which, when spooled,

is not a ball of yarn: “first there is a mountain

then there is no mountain then there is.”

Student: “Marpa, you taught us that everything 

is an illusion, so why your tears at your son’s death?”

Marpa: “It’s a very real illusion.”

No one who lives in fear their whole lives

gets very much done.

The Path is the goal, the journey is the point.

“I am a verb.” Buckminster Fuller

Change is the only thing that’s constant.

Break free of programming, stop making sense,

“the eccentric is the basis of design,” think for

yourself before someone thinks for you. “Don’t 

let your insatiable desire for bullshit drive you crazy.”

 

(Extra Credit)

A flower.  (Yes, the Eloi were eaten by the Morlocks,

but at least their hearts were pure….sound familiar?)

Bon appetite.

Same Old Same Old

I am not a-mused... not inspired...dull...

pedestrian...run of the mill schlepper.

It's a beautiful day, though...at least there's 

usually that... meeting friends for lunch.

A free day from beating my head against 

a dark age, clarioning the truth, my cause.

Samsara, (confused world), is endless, as

Gampopa said, trying to wake us all.

Are you awake, or do you do whatever 

the little voices in your head tell you to?

My teacher complained that he had to

keep saying the same things over and over.

Without curiosity and effort it's hard to 

see clearly for oneself, let alone understand.

With all the confetti on the internet, it's 

easy to see why people are so boggled.

Smoke and mirrors, deception, the man

behind the curtain, analogies for this time.

Hitchhikers we picked up in Vermont had

never been out of the city...the trees scared them.

When you leave nature, nature leaves you.

Realities Bleed

Realities bleed into each other,

like watercolors.

Remember leaving the movie theatre,

the story still vibrates in you, 

the surroundings tingle with movie scenery.

Aliens from space have been intruding into

human reality, at least in stories, intensifying 

since World War Two.

(My dad took my brother and I as kids to his office

in Chicago to show us off in our space suits.)

All the stories by authorities and agencies to

quell the anxiety “What’s happened to my 

reality, Dude?” because the UFO/alien issue

is part of our experience already, whether 

directly or via hearsay or testimony, (has been

my whole life).

If it wasn’t real, no one would talk about it.

It’s not going to disappear or go away.

Will we just become more and more aware of it

until we finally take it for granted, 

like the airplane?

If you don’t like the weather, just wait a while.

A Travelogue To Read At Tea

Green covers everything from my window,

the houses, yards, driveways, streets, as if

they belonged to a hidden realm.

My spirit is carefully ensconced in its aerie

next to the mountains, valley down below

a good place for the rest of them.

Beauty surrounds me.

The Hopi prophesie about the Great purification…

I’m glad I didn’t save my money.

So That’s What It Is

Moon enters Sagittarius.

I can feel the shift, a lightening,

a subtle change in the way things move,

occur, flow, seem.

I am what surrounds me.

Skin is only an ephemeral boundary

that defines my temporary existence.

The music of the spheres inspires me,

this way and that, the waves  of energy

the universe emanates inconceivably.

When an apple hit Newton on the head,

he was only responding to the message.

What now, my Love?

Could the universe be my lover?

Consort certainly is a possibility.

Prospero’s alchemy was realizing 

that mastery of the universe meant

mastery over one’s own heart.

So that’s what it is…that’s what I feel…

the return to Yeats’s ragged bone shop, 

the heart.

Did you know that the heart has axions

like the brain, and that it actually sends

more impulses to the brain than it receives?

When you ask a Tibetan to point to his mind,

he points to his heart, not his head.

The heart is a lonely hunter.

It’s the heart that hunts, not the head.

The heart knows, the head just thinks

it does.

That’s why intuition works.

That’s why inspiration is magnificent.

That’s where art comes from.

The heart is humanity’s saving grace.

This is what it is…it happened, it arose,

like anything you’d notice on your 

morning walk, a “petite ficele”, a trifle,

nothing more…but also, nothing less.

Stop knowing, stop making sense,

the universe has put you on notice:

“Get in touch with your senses;

I’ve got something to show you.”

View From A Tea House

 Sitting in the alcove of the tea house,

lying in the opium den gazing out the window,

music of the Imperial Court thickens the space.

A sparrow or a bat flies outside past the window.

Saw whine harmonizes with ancient flutes and strings…

smell of fresh sawdust recreates antique temple scents.

A dream within a dream…realm within realms.

Creation doesn’t stop at death.

Ripples in the pond are like butterflies’ wings.

Now For Something Completely Not Different

Nothing like a little Grateful Dead to sweeten

the deal…the first album they did on speed…

just burning it up like little munchkins on fire…

incandescence of an era…(America invented fads).

That music was more than mere sound. It was

elemental, tribal, part of the archaic revival…

(America had “tent revivals” for a hundred years)

South Carolina black Church music is rock and roll.

It’s religious in the sense of Discordianism, the

Church of Bob, freedom with responsibility, or,

true anarchy. Hmmmn…Corny.

Another page, another chapter, another iteration.

How’s about the way termites build their nests?

Little Borgs.

Viola Lee Blues.

Mandelbrot schmortgasbord.

Psychedelic excelsior.

Brought back by ever present sky rocket bombs

detonating somewhere over the mountains and

a sandwich.

White On White

When one looks out through the senses,

one is, in fact, looking into a mirror.

The mind is a mirror that reflects only

what the senses will allow.

Polishing the mirror, as they say in Zen,

is the path to enlightenment,

or, as the hippies would say, 

turning on the love light,

looking back out from the void…

as Suzuki Roshi put it, something like;

“You” is the swinging door between 

what you perceive and the void…

not much, really, also everything,

(sorry not sorry).

Seize The Day

Horace’s original quote is:

“Carpe diem, quam minimum credulous posterio.”

Seize the day, trust the future as little as possible.

Like monkeys in a jungle swinging from vine to vine.

Training for years for one chance to win the gold.

(Would you tell the truth if it cost you your life?)

As hippies, it’s the way we lived, with mixed success.

As the Zen monk said to the novice sitting next to him:

“There is nothing next! This is it!”

I play the music over, but it never feels the same.

It’s not a guarantee that things will work out ok.

Who ever got one of those that really worked?

Some promise what will happen after you die.

Getting ahead of oneself never gets anywhere.

I’m right here, now…no place I’d rather be.

“Things are more the way they are now than they ever have been.”

Dwight David Eisenhower 

…a facet of carpe diem.

Music Of The Spheres

Cosmic harmony, when disrupted,

is the source of human chaos and confusion.

The Hopis know and teach about it.

They are waiting for the great purge too.

The music never stopped.

Perhaps we got too busy to listen.

Speed kills.

There’s music in the air…

there’s music everywhere in all the sounds:

sounds of machinery and construction,

sounds of children playing,

bird song and animal noise,

thunder and lightning and wind,

Church bells, car horns, clock chimes,

water tinkling down a stream…

a natural order;

just one of the senses, without which 

we wouldn’t know joy.

Footnote:

When my friend asked some locals

why they shot so many rocket bombs

into the air, they answered: 

“It makes us happy.”

Transcendent Lounge

Like the neighborhood bar at the end

of a usual day…the music is as I imagine 

it would be…same stillness…same

atmosphere of  “what the fuck just happened?”

or what in fact is happening…why we’re all

there, isn’t it? At least temporarily or habitually…

a place better that Church to contemplate.

Of course, I don’t drink now, did for decades…

it was helpful, but now I have the same feeling of

being in a place where it can all just be simply…

that’s why we’re all in those places, isn’t it, not

quite ready to go home or whatever is waiting 

for us where we sleep, whomever else inhabits 

familiarity. That’s what’s different here…we’re 

all strangers or no more than acquaintances…

no strings attached…humans need that sometimes.

“Unburdened by what has been.” What a joke…

some things you can’t get rid of…they leave scars

on the body and in the mind…there are tools you

can use to help with that, but the people in bars 

would rather nurse their wounds and drinks and

think of them as who they are…easier than 

starting over.

Decent humans deserve a little peace in their lives.

Human history hasn’t been kind to most humans,

nor where there often times when humans thought

that they should be. Only with the leisure class did

many humans have time to take a break and look

around at more of the world…now it seem that’s 

all they do. Problem is, most aren’t educated before

they have an opinion…a different kind of slavery.

It’s like you’re on the stool next to me at the bar.

You’re probably as interested in hearing me as

that guy next to me.

Waiting For What’s Next

Waiting for Godot…

waiting for the change…

waiting for the truth to be revealed…

waiting for the Golden Age.

We know that something is happening here,

but we don’t know what it is, do we, Mr. Jones?

Every point of view is manifest,

every point of view is displayed,

on the internet,

in the media,

every available platform.

Much of it is clickbait to make money.

It’s a world war of manufactured opinion.

It is propaganda in order to control.

Manufacturing consent…

“Remember the Maine!”

“Remember the Lusitania!”

“Remember Pearl Harbor!”

“Remember the Gulf of Tonkin!”

…history has been this way for a long time.

Reality has never been clearer because we are

seeing every facet of the situation at once, every

side of the story, every act of the play.

No wonder people are all worked up

with the version they cling to.

No wonder the voices get louder and louder.

Simplicity drowned out by noise.

Senses bombarded by senselessness.

Time to take a deep breath, relax,

forget about the whole thing,

and start over.

Beautiful Dreamer

Everything is the same today,

but it all looks different.

Are the chemicals in my brain

balanced differently today?

What else could it be?

(Armageddon?

Never count out the possibility.)

It’s a nice day dream/dreamy day

for a while for a change…thanks,

y’all, whomever there is to thank,

real people like my buddy, not 

imagining Gods that give blessings

(although I know some that do) a

kindred spirit/soul/entity/simulacrum 

that aided me on my path, and anyone 

else like that….a dying breed.

It’s dreamy to not have to do plumbing 

anymore…I don’t even have to live to

see and do anything new…there is nothing 

new under the sun…it’s still an adventure…

new little twists here and there…the plot

thickens…

…it also thins out as people die and players

exit the stage…it’s happening in stages.

Birth, yada yada yada, old age, sickness, death

is how the tune goes.

It’s all Bardo, 

transitioning from one form to another,

one sensation to another,

trying to hold it all together with thoughts,

habitual patterns, thickening plots.

Distracted by beauty.

Where was I?

Oh, never mind.

Watch Your Head

It’s hard to do unless there’s a mirror.

It also implies we have vision beyond 

our bodies, which is true.

I had an out of body experience in 

high school before I’d ever heard of

such a thing.

I was up at the ceiling looking down 

at myself in the Seniors’ lounge on 

a couch.

I never told anyone for decades.

It’s hard to get over having a body.

It’s hard to get over not being young.

Things are hard to get over, but what

choice do we have?

Some things are hard to hear.

Should you be thankful you’re hearing them?

What are your thoughts on the subject?

Joy and sadness…

eight billion people?

Wow….that’s a lot 

of everything.

Refrain

Music’s familiar magic tunes me up

to whatever ordinary miracles might arise

in today’s perceptions such as the wavy

peripheral vision I’m experiencing right now

the lack of inspiration to put down words

no muse is not good muse.

The saxophone is encouraging and patiently

waving its waves into my ears…I’m beginning 

to relax…time stretches…less bunched up

between my ears…

knotted by causes and conditions I can’t control…

the blockage reamed and loosened by sound…

(plumbers take notice)

all sound is mantra protecting the mind from the self

so, listen up, Blockhead! (that felt good).

All self is blockage from seeing things as they are.

If you ask: “What’s the hold up?” I just told you.

I could write something more pretty…

or, could I?

Right now, beauty is lying in bed not in pain,

a few accoutrements to keep me occupied,

the world will have to look after itself for a while,

rinse and repeat, da da dum da dum da dum.

Syncronythmancy #3

Defined broadly as: “The beat goes on”.

A good example is the degradation of pop music

from the sixties when music had meaning; Dylan, 

The Doors, The Grateful Dead sang beautiful 

music you could learn something from. 

Also, they were prophetic.

Now?

You tell me.

Woodstock was a music festival for half a 

million people.

They were there for a reason:

“500,000 halos outshined the mud and history.

We washed and drank in God’s tears of joy

and for once, and for everyone, the truth

was not still a mystery. “  Jimi Hendrix

OK, now that we have our baseline…

Gregorian chants sound sacred.

The term “mantra” means: “protecting the mind.”

A character walking on stage is preceded by his music.

I listen to pulp jazz doom noir music.

It matches the bedsheets

and the changing clouds outside the window

and the wabi-sabi nature of my existence;

precarious, brilliant, scary, exciting, awestruck.

Past and future are one in the right now.

It’s a runaway train that’s about to run out of track.

That’s what I hear in the music…it’s inspiring

to know that the shit show is about to blow.

As a plumber, I’ve unstopped some nasty sewers…

you don’t want to know.

Unstopping them was inspiring.

Maybe looking at what’s about to happen that way

and listening to Debussy might make you feel better.

In any case, the leitmotif for the next act has already

been being heard on the airwaves and in quantum song.

I’ll let you ponder that one.

Coda.

One For The Gipper

I played on teams…

in sports

leading meditation programs

leading plumbing projects

acting in ensemble theatre productions 

so I know what that’s like/how to be on a team.

The experiences have been mostly fulfilling.

Now I am a team of but one…solo water polo…

you’re looking at it…over here.

I’m not sure I could do anything like any

of those activities again.

I’m not even keen on teaming up with 

a publisher

a venue to read poetry

a venue to teach meditation…

I had to try…a lot…to get fluent at those endeavors.

Now I don’t try too hard…kinda trailing off

here at the end…

“the end of what?” he asked,

as if nothing ever ends, is lost,

reaches a conclusion except relativistically.

So this is one for the Gipper,

one for the team,

one for all sentient beings,

one for all the blood brothers and sisters,

Yada, yada, yada, expanding joy to the

universe certainly might as well should have….

you see, prayer, aspiration, “happy thoughts”

are techniques that change the quantum matrix

on the pre-subatomic level and effect everything.

So it’s better to not think but if you’re going to think,

think positive thoughts and if you can’t think positive 

thoughts sit still with the energy until it changes.

I had no idea I was going to write that, Gipper,

so, that’s one for you.

That’s called a cheap trick, but since

I’m not on a team or playing against

anyone, 

I win.

Question

The only question is am I hungry.

My stomach hurts but I don’t know 

if it’s hunger.

Would that be a reasonable assumption 

is a question.

Notice that I haven’t asked a question.

Have you ever met someone who was 

beyond question is a question I have.

Go ahead. Ask me.

I ate something and am no longer hungry,

but what happened to the question?

Most questions are like that.

Words Or Meaning?

Writing with purpose but not intent.

I don’t know if you believe me, but,

I’m as surprised as you are as to

what comes out, just like a birth,

coming from the same place, 

same universe, void, space, 

whaddyacallit,

happening while you don’t wait

or you wouldn’t be reading this now.

Gotcha.

Now that I’m started…

and so it goes…

the horizon can be right in front of you 

inches away.

(he inched away to the awaiting utensil

unknowingly giving himself away)

and I give myself away…why not…

I’m happy leftovers. 

It was a moving feast while it lasted.

Moving on….now, the eggplant as an

icon…what’s up with that? 

Never mind.

Mind this: that means pay attention.

Why doesn’t it mean something else,

like,

“Wrap your mind around this”, or,

“Grok this.”?

I think it means: “Grok this.”

Grok me?

I don’t need to apologize.

You could simply stop reading.

Auto-Da-Fe

Waiting like road kill on the sidewalk

only

I’m alive, with coffee.

A sad piece of old, raw meat laid out on the street.

I gave at the office.

I gave my life away.

My tombstone reads: “He tried.”

Oh, the possibilities when I was young!

The dharma was flourishing and I was part of that!

Now evil in the world is the main event.

It’s a dark age when the truth is hard to hear.

The Golden Age won’t happen unless the truth is revealed.

Meanwhile, the waiting is a bitch.

So, a raga, a cigarette, puffs of smoke from sky bombs,

cool air fans my body,

assuaging my sadness for all those tormented by uncertainty.

Love is the answer.

Love is all we need.

That message keeps sounding the soul.

Without it, where would we even be?

I still have love to give.

This is it; to the ephemeral waves of the internet 

I send it in waves of words

not expecting anything in return

because that’s what mind does

because it can’t help itself

if only you would know.

You do know…you love your child,

your dog,

something….

you love something.

Meanwhile, the raga plays my heartstrings,

the breeze tickles my skin,

waiting for y’all to catch the drift,

get a clue,

catch the meaning,

stop thinking

and take a look for a change.

I’ll just wait over here…

my body burning in the afternoon air.

No Comment

 “Release the hogs!”

Screamed the fat man in the bathtub 

for no obvious reason

except as declaration of intent 

to release said hogs

which would definitely have had an effect,

however, there being a dearth of hogs,

said proclamation was moot.

It was the age when noise had meaning,

as in the protests where words were not heard,

only the decibel level carried weight,

so the fat man was not without his supporters.

David Muir of the Newscaster persuasion strikes

me as one of those empty Suits, hollow men,

fat heads, nincompoops, dolts, retardos, pin heads

swarming the airwaves like locusts in frenzy 

of reporting a loud buzzing that occurred 

somewhere in the suburbs causing panic 

and the scratching of heads but no major

casualties or destruction…

that comes later.

Transformation

Are you the same person

as when you were three

as when you were eighteen 

as when you were thirty

as you are now at seventy seven?

I’d have to say no, although, there

certainly is some continuity.

I meditated, a lot, for years

so that changed my mind organically.

I was kinda nice, kinda an asshole,

drunk a lot, which I’m not anymore,

intense always when I was a plumber,

kinda interesting, kinda not…

now…

the furnace of habitual mind is ashes,

aside from the occasional ember…

trying to love even those I have 

every reason to hate.

You try.

It’s certain that hating only harms oneself,

so, there’s that.

To not be hating feels better too…just saying.

Ahem.

One could always 

one does always start over

even if it’s just another day 

another paragraph 

another breath…

period.

Now what?

You guessed it.

Yes, I’m simple minded,

which is hard to accomplish 

yet, to your surprise, easy to do.

Buddha said

meditate for ten years.

If you can’t meditate for ten years

meditate for one year.

If you can’t meditate for one year

meditate for one month.

If you can’t meditate for one month

meditate for one week.

If you can’t meditate for one week

meditate for one day.

If you can’t meditate for one day

meditate for one hour.

If you can’t meditate for one hour

meditate for one minute.

If you can’t meditate for one minute 

meditate for one second.

Why do you think he said that?

“In a minute there is time for decisions

and revisions that a minute will reverse.”

T. S. Eliot

Just sayin’.

Human beings can change

in ways no other animal can.

It takes discipline; willful 

intent and purpose in a certain

direction over a long period of time.

(Or, like Bruce Jenner, you just

cut off your dick and call it a day.

Sorry.)

So, yes, the lightbulb really has to

want to change.

I was never comfortable…I grew up

in an environment of crazy/alcoholic

discomfort, although, both my parents 

were smart and somewhat interesting.

I must have decided to not go crazy.

Yada, yada, yada, fifty years later and

Bob’s been my uncle for a while now

precarious as old age may be a sharp

edge of time and future infinity.

Cartoonish: A “Solemn Heights” poem

“Watch me paste this peripatetic palooka

with my powerful pachyderma percussion 

pitch!” Said the Carny aside to one of his

favorite rubes.

You may remember something different.

As she walks, she looks ugly, but her

“Buenos Dias” was so sweet and lovely…

and so it goes…

if it wasn’t for the cliches, we wouldn’t 

have a clue where we were, although,

they’re used these days as a sort of cudgel,

blunt instruments to be blunt.

Don’t mind me, I’m still here,

at least on paper.

A rather boffo beginning

dwindling to horse latitudes of stillness

a lighter shade of lattice shadows leading 

in an inevitable direction…not yet.

A guy walks into the coffee house…

Santa Clause?

An old Hells Angel?

I won’t go up to him.

I went up to him…

because…

and he gave me a cigarette 

and I realized he had a soft heart

Mexican with macho beard, hair and vest,

a chill dude…

nothing more…

no big deal…

and so it goes.

“And if I seem to be unkind

it’s only me it’s not my mind

that is confusing things.”  John Lennon

Bears repeating…it’s how we learn.

So, I took a chance here, on the sidewalk,

this morning, by taking a step, one step,

out of my routine, and the Mandelbrot 

took over…

see how easy that was?

Now you try.

If you were here now your mind would be changed 

because Tepoztlan is magic space,

heightened by being surrounded by copper rich mountains,

the town is in the caldera of an old old volcano,

so I did Malcom Lowery one better.

I did a Malcom Lowery without the death…

halfway for sure…

now resurrected

just like Jesus no shit

born again like Buddha

for anyone it’s possible

just like that simultaneous 

awareness nowness synchronicity

why not without the question.

Enigma On Toast

“What is that?”

I asked the waitress, pointing to the plate.

“It’s what you ordered.” she said,

having heard everything already before

and had an Occam’s razor 

one could sense the sharpness.

I was stuck.

If I said anything more about it,

we both would know I was a fool.

There was a loooong pause…we

continued to look directly at each other,

neither breaking eye contact.

Her nonchalant directness was amazing 

and uncanny…not unfriendly.

Finally, I said: “Could I have a cup of coffee?”

as if nothing had happened.

That really happened.

“Say something more better.” Chogyam Trungpa

Uh…huh…gosh…

well…

I’m on the spot…

you got me there…

mind is blank…

your remark made it go away…

now I’m just standing here, naked,

everyone waiting for me to say

something…

I got nothing…

(like when you were a kid and you put

ants under a magnifying glass I feel

like the ant).

Suddenly I was somewhere else sometime 

later…how I got there was a blank…

as was how long it was before I got there.

Doo Dee doo Dee doo…Kemo ki mo, 

care oh care, me hi, me Ho,

 me rumpstickofpumpernickle

soup bang woof tweet,

pollymichacambio, I love you,

Doo Dee doubley doo.

just keepn’ on truckin’.

 

(this actually happened)

Footnote

I really am trying to not pontificate

which is why I’m not really trying,

words just happen as they should 

as when you are talking to a friend

they arise naturally out of the be bop

rap, improvisational music, skat, 

so many ways the mind naturally 

blows itself to beyond boundaries 

into natural gardens of spontaneous 

expression which is the Word of God

to twist your nipples.

Doodles

It’s a magic carpet ride

on the ebb and swell of infinity 

leading to the overwhelming question

if only we could see.

It’s a magnificent illusion 

we can’t help but believe.

There’s no other game in town.

Even the carnies are caught in the trap.

Basho floating on the lake,

Beach Boys surfing their carnival dream,

occasional tsunami reminder

of endless possibilities. 

Music is a pointing out of magic,

-the movement of delight,

the secret that brings joy

and cosmic appreciation.

As if for the first time,

there’s a first time for everything,

a first time for the first breath,

a first time for the last.

Now is the moment of first time,

square one, 

fecund minimum,

first thought, best thought,

ordinary mind,

the only time we have,

the flower in Buddha’s hand.

The best thing we can do, if

I may say so and I may,

Is to get used to it, which

is achieved through meditation,

accomplished by thousands

over thousands of years, 

and you can too start now,

because, as I mentioned,

there is only now, the time to start,

anything, so, choose wisely.