Saturday, July 22, 2017

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...), the internet, the hive mind makes 
us feel connected even though we're not,
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.


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?


They get lost in the always smaller
continuously unfolding rose
that has no center,
no conclusion.

(hint hint)

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.

Friday, July 21, 2017


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, 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 

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. 


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.

Fear Based Assets

July 20, 2017
            the culture
has spread 
             like an epidemic
of grrrectness,
             seized power
The Great-Brain-Washed...

tools to create awake society
replaced by assembly line ed-
ucation, socially engineered
stupidity and conformity...

              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)

Monday, July 17, 2017

"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.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

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

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.



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.

Friday, July 14, 2017

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.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

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 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.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

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

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

Tuesday, July 4, 2017


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 

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

Monday, July 3, 2017

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 – 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, 

Sunday, July 2, 2017

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.


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.

Saturday, July 1, 2017


standing up for what's right
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

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Resisting Arrest

"They" want to put a stop to us...
to freedom
to free thinking
to love and joy
to creative self expression:
music and art and literature.
It appears it's becoming against
the law to be human.

Revolution is translated as "molting"
in the I Ching. 
That's what it's time for;
shedding too small a skin, 
outmoded ideas and ideals,
primitive beliefs about reality,
conflicting emotions that drive
us crazy.

Revolution happens, whether the
snake likes it or not...
resistance is futile.

On the other hand:
resisting arrest means staying alive
not frozen in fixed mind
open to uncertainty
alive in human body foible
getting the jokes.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

"Continuously Morphing Quotes"

"What dd you think of your meeting
with Trump?"
"He was like pieces of a broken mirror
in a leather bag."

"Have a nice day job."

"Soylent Green is sheeple!!"

"All we're looking for is a few good memes"

Grow a life.

Don't get theoryous on me.

I'm gone to stay.

We do what we want,
whether we like it or not.

A poem is like taking a good crap:
the poem may take a little longer,
but the results are the same.

It's past my dead time.

A plate cracks:
certain peas roll off.

The Kardishans sure know how
to put their best tits forward.

Rubles are nothing but trubles.

Hand over the footage.

Forget what?

You gave me a  start...I wasn't finished.

A zipper is as close as a machine gets
to having an orgasm.

"Do you think God created everything 
in seven days, and these are the judgement 
days, and Nibiru is coming and Reptaliens
run the world government and population
control, nuclear war, Chelsea Clinton-
Handler-Manning, and, and..."


Climactic Zipper

Hemlock useless in emergency
anywhere dense right here
heritage scream deaf ear
confidence beached and bloated
noble gasses pass the same
give anxious liver drink as present
caste members delicate believing
flophouse biological bleeding factory
random fragile clouds haze 
the junkyard...

(at this point, the computer had a 
cigarette and said: 
"is it good for you?")

equipment quips crunchy numbers,
adorable symbols, magnificent absurdities.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Virgo Moon

Rip tide born explosive emotions
out of the blue 
depths of soul pulse clot
horror equation
random organization
tornado heaving in dusk light
midnight horsefeathers
too late for regrets.


"Think that you know what to do:
Impossible, yes, but it's true"

Lost in a maze of conditioning.
It was the pressure of conformity
in the fifties that led to revolution.
Eisenhower represented a blunt
instrument of social engineering
refined later by CIA mind control
and pharmaceutical prison, yet,
it too has become too obvious
for many if not most people. The
program is to get most people so
hypnotized that moving from the
suburbs to a FEMA camp won't
seem much of a transition...not
there yet, but heading that way.
Maybe so much crime people will
want to be in camps protected is
another option. More ex-pats even
as buffaloes exit Yellowstone.
Land of the flee, home of the naive.

Hard To Handle

I tell the truth, or, In fairness, I should say
my version, which falls short as all of our
truths do, but, nevertheless no fear to show
myself as is as human. Who can object?
Yet, walking-on-eggs has become USA
national fad like the hoola-hoop only less
humorous. Pig Schumers oink loudly about
P.C. violations only to be laughed at by
reasonable people. The truth is hard to 
handle but inevitable eventually. Just think
of all the money and work in USA to maintain
the lies. Even if God didn't destroy humans
once in a flood, you know He would have
had a good reason. 

Thursday, June 22, 2017


You know, like,
that little bit that hangs down
at the back of your throat, or,
the button on the dashboard 
you never use, the bracelet 
with all the doodads; the button
on your coat that's loose and you
should mend it, but you don't, 
and one day it's gone. 

Domination Of The Arcs

Where do we start, and,
then what happens?
A plot arcs in a movie
or novel; the course of
events has a pattern.
Our lives arc the way a
milkweed blossom floats
on the wind and alights.
Civilizations rise and fall
like the landscape..

More realistic to see life as
process or pattern than a 
solid piece of furniture we
sit on all our days. "I am
a verb" as Fuller said.

Our lives ruled by patterns
predictable, sane, rational,
getting us through the day, 
our years....

or free spirited and spontaneous
we go, not sure ourselves what 
we'll do next; an acquired taste 
of freedom gained through 
shedding useless habitual 
masks behind which we hide 
from the world and our true nature.

We know what path we're on, what
direction we're heading if we're 
honest with ourselves. If not, the
Blob of unconscious tendencies
absorbs us, the Godzilla of self
destruction decimates, King Kong
of ego shakes his fist from the
skyscraper to no avail.