Waking slowly.And after all that, the moon is gone – casting a silhouette form around a lone pine tree. We are on the horizon. The

The coyote pups cackling this morning. The big white barn owl on the hunt. Sounds like fun, playing wildlife.While I play wildlife here.Everyone just a

Further. You go further,and that means questioning the very root and basis of everything,and finding the jokes and laughing yourself silly about the nonsensical beliefs

I don’t care, and I don’t have a mind complicated enough to think that what I care about matters.That is the surrender required.Could you have

You look at me like you want something.And I doubt that it is simply sex.You want to know your self.But you think it comes through

It’s structured like an Aesop fable.Boy asks cow behind a fence.Boy asks fox on a rock with Stevie Wonder sunglasses.Boy asks turtle with old man

This is a stage to dance on.And I am armed with time today.Dali’s watch melts across my wrist.And the stars witness. And the city lights

What’s wanted from a fire? Nothing required from a fire. It takes away. Fire taking away thought. Burning presence to sell you immediate wonder. Tearing

Journals full of things I didn’t do. Lists of maybes. The triumph of not being hasty. Libraries of the ideas of others that kind of

The dead say eliminate . . . get things out. Don’t contain things. The dead desire the stages of beauty only the living have. The

A small boy picked up a baseball, round as the earth. ‘Have a ball,’ someone might have said. A small boy jumped toward the hoop

And a mystic said, ‘Brains are no place for serious thinking.’ Adherents sat in a crowded cinema – chained to their seats. Some hollered at

It was said the only way out is through. It can be a short way or a long way. All the ways through these pages

Is the doing deliberate? Does the man have a plan? Or is doing coming through the man via the objective world? When the plan emerges

And these frames, they get jostled. And these pipes, they get clogged. And these recipes and algorithms get troubled and buggy. The mechanism is failing,

Attempting to explore the world before the end. And that’s not a melodrama. It’s just what is for everyone. And the simplest of choices is

Alan Watts said you are an aperture through which the universe sees and experiences itself. But it’s worse than that in “real life.” Actually, you

Liking the color and shape of things, I turn off the sound to human drama. So much insistence that something is going on here that’s

And his the fear of someone fancy. A woman beyond his reach by clever definitions of Gucci and bling. A person beneath sparkling way brighter

This frame, this animal, this director of importance demands to live. When the “I am” inside has seen enough. And the groundhog day keeps rising,

If you have a spot that needs a thought,put an image there.If you have a space that needs grace,hang a painting high.If you have a

You will not find your self in thoughts.Your self stands by and watches as your thought-of-self scampers about a room,looking for keys that are in

Is death something to be worried about?Is death to be feared?Is discomfort?Or is discomfort fear itself manifested?Alcohol gone to upset stomach.Rumination gone to headache.Overwork turned

I see religious people, and I see a comforting agreement.I see anti-religious people, and I see political agreement.I see surfers, and I say, “How were

Thinking of the constellation charioteer and looking at it.And thinking of how J could come to a party alone becausemy fantasy is that she’s unattached

If the evidence is man and man is nature,then nature wants to see itself.The galaxies want to witness their unfoldings and destructions.Witnessing in the mirror.

Who are you?A collection of things to do?A running loop of gags?A pattern of flexing muscles? A pair of eyes tracking stars. A membrane of

Maybe ideas of wanting are tied to phases of life.Of youth to striving.Of middle age to pondering.Old age to surrendering.Why wouldn’t it be otherwise? But

A kind of love that’s not the one they agree on.An erasing of thought.That kind of love.An erasing of experience.A purging of agreement. Not the

Ego stop, and just describe this man.The hockey player is one of the fastest on the ice.The seats in the stands are empty.There is no

Arising again.Awakening at dawn to finally clear skies and a canopy of stars.To a grouping some society long ago decided was Orion.Arising to read the

Why poison the frame?There is no way to get away from it. Even if the art is surrounded by a moat of mud – the

When I say I contain much, what am I?What is that container?That “I” is a membrane of thoughts around a lifetime of characters played carefully.A

And the woman said, “I’m nothing. I’m nobody, and I don’t do nothing.” In a nonchalant Mancunian accent she actually said that,as if it weren’t

If I own art, I don’t want to own cheap art.If I’m making art, I don’t want to create cheap art.If I’m painting a wall,

The girls who live in fancy housessensed trouble when the bathroom towel rack pulled off of the wall.Drywall dust scattered across cheap tiles. Oh shit,

The world is whatever game you make it up to be. You could make it about avenging a villain or an abuser. It could be

And the day started with limp thoughts. Vapid, empty, thankless thoughts. As if a universe of sparkling wonder ever cared a whit for one egotistical

What is fear but a prevention mechanism?Prevention of what?Of chance?Of development?It’s not some homily from the “just do it” crowd.Or we’d all be nuked by

And the man wants dandelion tea or dandelion capsules or just dandelions.Always wanting some bettering of the vessel while the vessel deteriorates.But the self improves

A lichen and moss covered wood bench.Squirrels discarding acorn husks from above.Just out of range from being skulled.Nike the dominant shoe walking by.Rarely an Asics;

And a purple-haired college girl sat down at the sleek black pianoin the corner of a fancy traditional room of the EMUwith rustic oil paintings

And the house-less, home-less, place-less, loneliness of Eugene streets bicker with themselves as the orange morning breaks.There are spoils to be divided from the student

Morning show. First light.The brain is different at dawn. There are secrets in every one of us, and they’re the same secrets.They’re the ones that

And the woman in the park wearing scrubs heads to work.She’ll send catheter-driven blades, saws and cameras through pig and antelope hearts. What are you

Life is truly wonderful, and anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit. A man in a white park maintenance truck said “hey” to

And the woman at the park disparaged football.And the men at the park bristled at the heresy.A player hating the game.But no doubt the woman

You mistake me for a believer in things.Nothing could be further from the truth.Wait.That’s wrong.All things are right next to the truth.All things now and

Arising again, the sky goes from a blackish dotted blue to some kind of powdered tone of navy. To cerulean with a band of dusty

Everybody knows someone dying or dead. Some tear-jerker of a story they’ve put in a boxed narrative and held at arm’s length like some garbage

What you enjoy when a cloud goes by and the sun throws pink onto everything is the fact that nothing’s going on here but oh

To remember that feeling and attitudenot rationality and logicare the currencies of the mud and flood world.

The truth, should you care, is that nothing’s going on here.Grasp that and you can flip into the other truth that everything’s going on here.And

There were days when you hid your keys, when you hid your phone, when you hid your remote control.And you pretended to be frustrated with

Stare at a street lamp.Understand what a street lamp is.Are you beginning to see the light?You are that.Do you see the waves coming from the

“There are love stories, and there is obliteration into love.” – Rumi “Your desire must be disciplined, and what you want to happen in time,

And there are stories the human child should and shouldn’t know. Grimm’s fairy tales come to mind. Friday the 13th. Days of infamy – you

The sunflowers came up on schedule. A ladder climbing up from a seed. Swaying awkwardly in the morning wind. All rusty, golden, dusty and yellow.

“It is vain to skulk.” – Walt Whitman One can get the feeling that something is ending. But nothing ever ends. It only bursts out.

At dawn today, an absurd little insect scampered south on a vinyl floor made to look like French oak. Way back when, the moon, like

To wake early is just to be with the morning. It’s no other exercise. It’s not getting to something else sooner. It’s not some way

The dog only knows the noun.There’s the word squirrel, and she knows what that is.‘Coyote’ and she goes bananas.Bunny is known.But not ‘not a squirrel’

If you hang around long enough, you get to do lots of things.But those things are not you.He caught a fish.He slid down a snowy

Things show up for you because of the algorithm. “These are not popular headlines,” he said. “It’s obscure stuff.” “So they just show up for

And who are the bugs that get into the house? What are the parts that explain your existence? What do you want of the self?

Cryptic can seem pretentious.That owl is hunting every night, but I see it only five times a year. I’m taken care of by generations of

A poor girl is dazzled by wealth.A rich one is bored with two thousand dollar hand bags. A painter struggles to keep the image of

As an adult, you pretend you don’t know where anything is.Where are my keys?What’s my password?What is this life and where is it going? As

And the sky births things that would be comforting in death.Death but a process from one place to another. Jets like thorns floating across with

What is the process of waking up in the morning? Addition. Of adding on an alarm bell or a funky sound or a radio station.

Everything is alive with the animating force of you. If you have access to greatness – to godlike power – and you do, you would

A baker sees the world in terms of hunger and sustaining. And scents of toasty, secure warmth. A certain delight that comes with passing risen

Must one convince the self that the world is full of wonders? Or is it just so? The dawn sky delivers awe to a man,

And the day is a process of delusion. One wakens with some clarity then layers gum onto the eyes as the hours pass. Gum from

And she said, “Journey,” like she’s on some kind of a reasoned itinerary. “This is my journey.” “How’s your journey?” And the man couldn’t help

Sitting around with the glow of a pre-dawn street lamp – one notices what it is. Of course, it’s energy from the sun re-routed through

And everyone says, “I don’t do drama.” But if they’re players in the game, they have to. Drama is the currency and the purpose of

A big, burly pine tree grows too high for the neighborhood association. Someone on the road above prefers their view of below has no obstructions

Thoughts are things, and things are thoughts, and you, my friend are stuck in a thing pattern. . . a thought pattern. And there is

“And let’s say the game you play is a metaphor for life.” His son dropped the game controller at age 17 and stared back at

I don’t care, and I don’t have a mind complicated enough to think that what I care about matters. That is the surrender required. Could

To see clearly. And to know your own story of love. However improbable that could be. To notice what you missed 10,000 times. The kestrel

Who knows what they’ve been named, but the way they jump through the bush and clean it of berries is sublime. Whistles and a chatter

If there’s no more wonder, then there are no more poems. And what is wonder but a simple curiosity? With a splash of something else

She said, “The age of ambition is coming to a close.” For her, it might be the end of wanting a baby. The end of

You are not granted any safety. None at birth, none in life, and none at death. And what is safety but a deception by the

How to recapture a spirit of insanity? Further. How much further could you take this? Past shuddering sage leaves in a container garden. How to

What is it to play the game well? At the root, not to violate the law. The law? To commit the sin of boredom. Whatever’s

She smudged the room with a burning, smoking smudger thing. A bad juju might leave the premises. And what better game to play? It’s no

If you’re in an argument with life – what would it be about and why? What’s the reason here? Why reason? Is there such a

Is there really anything to figure out but the gurgling sound of a song bird? Knowing that a certain chipmunk makes a similar alarm-bell ring.

This character’s a walking TV show for the others. To the extent he hits lines, crafts dramas, provides mystery and resolves dilemmas, he’s successful. Few

And she said, “Talk in straight lines,” as guidance to the conversation.He was playing with words, as usual, but saying things no less direct than

You’re about to experience one of life’s cherished lessons. Those around you die. And, by extension, you die. Yes, the end of intricately confabulated stories

Oh morning, oh fungus rising, oh leaned over poppies, oh gears of the biker heading down the hill. Teach me about living now. How to

A human staring down a ruse of permanence in a world that’s actually doing slow-motion impermanence. The snail dead today rises anew tomorrow. Obituaries fill

And the couples assemble because they agree about lies. Or, they fall into sex, then they justify further by agreeing on narratives – stories they’ve

The hummingbird sounds off like some kind of pressing laser gunfight. Crows make a beeline in the sky for garbage somewhere. Micro mist drops place

From something to nothing.There’s the hard part.All this to _________________.Flat line, unknown.Unknowable.Knowledge not even a factor.The holy ghost in reverse.No action.Take away.No action.No.Something not even

Look, look, look. What is all this? Why does the dog sniff? What is the law of the land? The lawn pushes upward to light,

I can easily tell embarrassing and mortifying stories about my former selves because those characters are not me. They’re interesting roles in a book of

Take away. Take away. Take away. As the day takes away, it goes from morning fog to thick marine layer to bright burn off.  From

“Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so. Only what nobody denies is so.”– Walt Whitman So little is truth.So much is

The problem with thinking is that 99.7% of it is not true. And there’s a certain delight to an argument in your mind, but it’s

A hummingbird hovered over the grown-out lawn. Early morning. Sun crested the hill. No breeze. The down draft of its wings pushed long leaves of

And I changed shorts in the bedroom closet. Dumb, pulling clingy fabric over grippy running shoes. I stumbled and goofed. Everything’s a trap. You either

To change the story you’re telling is to change the life you’re living. Bukowski tells of women, hard-ons and boozing. Waiting out the clock, taking

If you are the sum of your senses, then you are green – the dominant color of this particular spot. You are a thick gray-white

And there’s usually not much of anything going on. The people are pushed and pulled around town, around freeways, through airports based on stories they’ve

I am a god mission. I want to own the night and the dawn and the coyote hours. The purple sky along the black horizon.

Am I separate from these pages? I feel them as me. Ha! Pencil lead to paper. Follow the lines. Practice the way we think in

Why is this bunch of nerves sampling this world? Am I a planet probe? Am I reporting back to something else? What’s to report? I

There are meanings in numbers, like the code you choose for your combo lock. There are meanings in the lines on your hand and the

Death is on the line. It could be incredibly painful, like a birth.It could be soft and slow, like a lifelong distraction.The fact that it’s

The girl with the bow on her head lecturing other toddlers about the importance of squirrels. The woman in technology-designed shoes, shorts and tank-top pumping

Roads less traveled . . . You could just as easily forgo the script and think yourself a maverick by deciding not to have children

These are not poems. They are a peeling of a personal onion. It’s not art, it’s an elimination game. Looking under each level to find

You are the assembler of your experience. Fear alone keeps you from scenes of beauty. Fear of insignificance, like when the dog denied you her

What are the agreements? We all get up and exercise. We have pets on leashes. We marvel at nature miracles as if they’re rarely under

And you could, at the behest of a guru, wait for the pond to clear, for the mud to settle and the surface to stretch

Your job for your entire life has been to drop who you are.

If I’m a dreamer, have I dreamed this into being?A mudslinger.A baseball player.A quarterback.A genius at a desk, pushing eraser flotsam across a vinyl ocean.A

What is further?Further than where? Nowhere is further than here.Hey, there’s a doozie. Nowhere is definitely further than here.But, there’s certainly nothing further than what’s

Yes, sitting near a fire and telling half-truths. Yes, hands across a body. Yes, pulling words from thin air only to send them back. Yes,

And why do you reckon there are so many cameras proliferating? It’s certainly not for the narcs. So many symbols for eyes. So many replications

Why not act out a wonderful, simple play . . . right here on earth . . . for the gods in the front rows

And I want to be kissed by the creature inside me. Knowing she’s death.Knowing she’s written on my recipe. I want my tongue to go

Maybe there are no words for this.Maybe just paintbrush strokesand confetti wilderness. I am the inheritor of you. The breast wider than an athletic build.

And what are you? Look at your hands. You’re dying. Your shell is cracking and thinning. The purple return vessels are coming to the surface,

Deathbed notice, To get juice from every minute. Made into an obsession. Paying excruciating 😉 attention and to never be folded into the game of

What happens between your ears, boy, is more real than anything out here. “Habit yourself to the dazzle of the light,” said Whitman. Out here

I fiddle with words as the craftsman across the street builds a nicer interior for the ego of another.He measures, saws and binds.I do something

And what could I take away to be a more simple character?Ideas from the past.Things from the garage.Images of used up meaning.Clothing that says unsure

And it wants so badly to go on. The evidence is everywhere.Spring bursts forth.The walking man looks for evidence of life.The grasses push up below

And I have a strange optimism when I read my own words. And when I see my own flowers pop up from the soil. And

Books and books of sprouted thoughts, screenplay starts, sketches turned paintings . . . Does anyone think it’s real? Certainly not me. I can smell

As if to couple,it would be my job to overwhelm you with a washing worship of sorts.Not a job as in work but a job

There’s a smell of last night’s fire in the room. A skin forms on the top of hot coffee, and it flexes with twitching geometric

Seems like it’s always about the sky. The sky above and the sky within.The one within is an area that doesn’t know words.A space free

I am the sum of time forever.I am the sum of none of it.I am only a starving witness.I am alien to Earth. Was I

What’s to report back to the gods? The experiment is failing. The ants have abandoned the hill and decided to smoke weed away from prying

They’re doing what they do. Fretting about the prices of things. Their worth and the cost of things coming and going, as if they had

To understand desire,you need to come to terms with the galaxy under your nose.All is here.When you do that, you understand truth.By understanding truth you

What am I not?I am not a narrative. I am a constantly appearing thing.An experiencing thing – within moments, I gather up what they are

Dreaming of a woman’s touch that has no webs attached.Loving every scene found.The home made into a fantasy. Feeling the absurdity with an oddball urgency.You

What’s really going on? You’re hurtling toward death. Death of the organism. Your family is dying. Your home is disintegrating. Your planet is ending. All

Live up the illusory dance, even though it’s known as fake. Nothing is more important or less important than anything else, so there’s no way

He walked through battlefields and deathly triage outposts Fascinating on the beauty of the redness of blood exiting the living. Draining in transition to death.

An upside-down four-limbed octopus, I am. Nerve ganglion creature of an alien planet. Planet alien to who but me. And why? To giggle and be

Does a dried leaf surrender to gravity? Does a man actually rage against the dying of the light? Does the stream’s water surrender to new

Why does the will keep going? What is the game it’s programmed to play? What needs to move forward in time? If time is a

What starts with me? What ends? Enthusiasm. Going. Making sense. Absurd laugh. A shell of being trouncing across a planet. A hedonist. Chocolate, wine and

The scene changed from dull to wild color circus. It was as much us crafting the scene as a god peering down. Possible it took

A dirty, sewage-punctuated road to the left running straight to a beach called little closeout. A term devised to keep other surfers away. A lie

Interested in what’s going on here . . . But it appears not much. The noise of a dryer looping some clothing. A toe torn

If death is on the table – a skull awaiting eternity – is there truly urgency? If so, what is urgent?

Intelligence, data, information and what’s it all for? Why did it become the collective obsession? The moon sinks down into the horizon anyway. The ants

So quickly what was once a kitchen preparation headed for a mouth becomes a taboo piece of disgust within a trash can. How can it

No hall of fame for first world guys who worked with mania and tried their hardest. May as well believe in heaven or that money

What is an animal? Animal is what you are minus this animating chatter. The inner nag of language and voice. Were you born when you

Like a sane soldier, I await a death with a master’s curiosity. Awake. Alive. Availing.

How much of the lamp is the light? The post The reflector The element The filament The glass The aurora The halo spikes beyond the

I’ve seen the owl. I’ve seen the bobcat. And they don’t believe me. Miracles of nature in their midst, and they deny it. Nothing so

Reality is a story. That’s all. And the story unliked is the one where achievements go for naught. Life was futile, and here come all

Eating whale steak by the light of a whale oil lamp. Eating sirloin with an ox bone knife. Consuming something with the thing itself. Feeding

Nobody knows where words come from, or strokes of a paint brush. The why – because. The where – who knows. Please remember me, says

And who do you think you are? I am. That’s the start. The lights are on. I’m behind the eyes, awake as awake can be.

“Truth” happens when bunches of people get into agreement with one another. They huddle and nod yes, yes, yes, As the storm that kills all

The women with sweet parts come down the hill. And the only danger for a man is loss. But even with that, more comes and

A man comes across a computer virus, something called the Brain Computer Virus. It terrifies him. This virus breaks a constructed biological system – a

Rings of silver, white, gray and black jiggle in the lighted still-life water glass. A splash of blue, a dash of yellow. Track lighting from

A distant memory. A childhood sound. Na, na, na, na, na, na . . . But not a fun one. An endless, jibbering echo of

You found another blank slate, A clean canvas, A small but giant place for a story starting now. For God sakes, don’t bring yesterday’s story

Rise up like bread dough, not like a revolutionary. Something inside pumping life into a package of skin. Dreams from the night before coded into

For the awake, two patterns matter – what you notice and what you paste onto what you notice. And the pasting on is often how

Lightning strikes over parked sea boat masts, Dividing the sky into puzzle pieces. A hasty wind turns the harbor top into scales of a fish.

To dream something into being, to imagine it. Would it start with you? How could it? You are not start. You are a hash on

Oh science master. Oh quivering mercury. Oh liquid Earth. Assistant of twisted car wreck metals and forever bunnies. Thank you for moving the set pieces

No such thing as confidence. Unless you have confidence in that fact, there’s a thing. A trust in oneself, a humble trust that the self

Every one of us walking in the park sees it as my time. And everyone is right, no matter how bitchy they become about it.

I conjure and am conjured. My hands unleash the smallest and most medium-sized truths I know. The mind allows them through. The character plays with

They gather to walk dogs. But the dogs would rather wrestle and chase. Neutered animals still desiring to play act at the game of “something’s

I’m an open book, he says. But his book is full of coded poems, only open for the thinking.

In the biological outer world, we’re all out here, playing in the gully because of sex. That’s it. A game that wants to be rebooted

Once the story stops, the lonely days cease. A narrative clipped. Evidence ground away by pulling back to see what actually is. Grinding to dust

And who do you think you are, J? Acceptable answers would have been: God, the watcher, or ‘not J.’ All the other stuff – the

The beauty of the dump. The brightness on a patch of water. A tree in the eye of a dog. You looking at you in

Two eyes to see the world. One with what is. And one with what isn’t. One direct. And one with a reflection. One with nature,

And you retreated a bit. But where did you retreat to? A few books. An easy surf spot. Courts for playing ball. The single life

“What if I’m just a character in a play called your life?” he asks a friend. And he wakes with a playground in front of

A beautiful woman with a golden heart and enthusiasm for days calls to talk about her wonderful life. What a brilliant window of time to

And sometimes a fear – fear that this drift of a life cheats the world of something. Absurd. Plenty of us live and die, contributing

You don’t get more. You get less. There’s no extra sparkly here or toys or special flavors. There’s taking away, losing, and less. There’s stripping

Sunlight on the wakeup side of a Japanese maple. Snail craning neck sideways. Faith birdhouse waiting for some new homeowner. Dew drips down from maple

I had my war. I laid down at gunpoint too many times. I sampled fear and turned fearless in one day. I took a ride

I’m nowhere you can’t be or haven’t been. The settings and scenes don’t change much. You just keep getting pestered by the things that show

We’re all rodents here, with plenty of food. Illusions of lack abound. The only task is to widen the eyes and see what’s really going

Nightshade on the hill. In my life. A stipe of dripping glaze on pottery. A reaching pine that pretends to bow down. A handful of

And the jester knows not how he jests or if he jests. He’s clad with shiny ideas – a fist full of data and facts,

An arrival like a note in the street. Like a worm born of dirt. Like a mermaid. My own personal Buddha. A gem in the

A young boy of maybe six years cries then laughs then throws a stick my way. He grabs it near my chair then throws it

Dream about renting out rooms in my mansion. I am, and the lights are on. Consciousness, that’s all. Nothing more to it. No goo-ruuu nonsense

When you paddle into a big wave, you’re committed. When you enter into the asylum, you’re committed. The physical push yields a return of energy

Oil on concrete. Water on the oil. Color on the ground. By what brighter star might you navigate? You want your self to understand. Who

The color yellow says something bright. Something so different than the others. The sky behind comes through thick tropical clouds. A dawn noticed. One day’s

It’s 14 years from now and the dog died today, or was it yesterday? The stunning thing is how absolutely none of this matters. The

People as frauds. The Catcher in the Rye phonies prance the surface. And I put on a costume or two. The Stranger. Caufield. K. Z.

Every little smart watch check says ‘who am I?’ How many steps becomes the person? Every analog watch check says ‘time to death?’ The count

And hello to Joyce, chooser of sounds, and to a simpler Hemingway post shotgun blast. Why music artists sing la la la la la la

The world is always this bright. The colors are always there. Clouds or no clouds. Wind or none. Can you write a softer symphony? Paint

And the most absurd of things. . . She pretends to broker bits of the Earth, as if she could receive money for trading the

“What are you afraid of?” he asks her. She doesn’t know but will say something like spiders or social ostracism. And he relents. “Obscurity.” “But

Would you trade nothing for everything? What is really yours? Say truth now. Past and future? Those were never yours. A chattering mind? That’s a

Died last night. The day was gone. Little things done will come back a little bigger tomorrow. How to explain to J or L that

World doing utter nonsense. Doublespeak. Gobbelty-gook. Mary Poppins-Tweedle-Dum-upsidedown-babble. Name anything people care about, and it will be useless drivel. What’s so important? What’s your flavor

Why on Earth is it so important to do something here? Who says so? What’s important to do? Who defines important? If one were to

None of us are well. And it stems from this stark reality of our dispositions. Our denial. We have two facts surrounding us from all

It doesn’t lament the work it took to deliver. A hawk just brings a mouse. A writer writes. A painter paints. A poet poems. Kids

What could be changed in a moment to create a radically different person at a later date? What turn now could lead to destination unknown?

Four child hawks and one mother. The mouse feeds them and my dog finds the tiny bones below. Treats for one looking in low places.

Remembering the dead and measuring time in the stiffness of blueberries. He that is always love, like Rumi’s little stories, blooms again with a gardener

Down in the Earth, slaves settle into mercy’s tomb Their conducting rope reaches up to the top crust What did they sacrifice? Jesus Christ, a

What is faith but a mere settling into what is? Wherever you stop is perfect. Whatever you do is perfect. This is infinite, so mistakes

Fear. Fear of insignificance. Fear of irrelevance. Fear of FUTILITY. So what. Thank you, Miles Davis. Onwards. Does the dandelion think its activity is futile?

What is a mate? A cell mate? A choice of commitment for the long haul? There is no long haul. A mate is a choice

The world is your mirror, Miss H. You found someone different because you are someone different. Is there something special about me? Wrong question. There

Why weary, and palsy arm at the oar? (Melville) Broken pattern and white whale seen. Avenging life with unity. On the path repeated, surrounded by

Ah, to sit slack-jawed, studying the hours unasked for. Pushing logic onto illogic. Knowing it’s more fun without the thinking. Why even put pen to

If the scene is nothing, and the production crew is no one, then hire the director, actor, writer, lighting team and cinematographer. Demand action and

If infinitywould quickly devour me I’d see the sun had been turned outand moon plunged into sea All tales eradicatedAll evidence annihilated The toads and

This poem held up as a desire to be involved in something completely ridiculous. Dress me up in jester clothes. Plaster on the decades. Only

This play dream world is the mirror. Bitching truth with every little symbol and image. Irony all around mocks and steers to a truth. To

Gloves off. Saw them on the road. Philos character puttering and muttering. Dissolving by the roadside while hitting the marks. Being the soaring tail eagle

See self again. Re-thinking pattern, order, perfection. See again. All he’s been doing for decades is seeing self again. Then it’s stuffed away as the

Joe vs. the Volcano Cast Away The Terminal Ha, ha, ha. Jaw on floor with the idea that the cast is away. Never thought about

Clutching time like a branded fool, I walk a line in a crowded school. But one day I came to Mary, with one idea so

Soaring into the living once more. Into the lawful. A dazzling wonder materializes before my eyes. A lovely face and frame prances through my text

Dear God – placed here on a worn teak chair, blasted with the morning sun. A phrase foisted on my eyes: “Long enough have you

Into the looking glass went your eyes. And there you were again. Like the worm in your pocket after you stomped the Jerusalem beetle.  You

Oh Philos, you dug so industriously, like an ingenious prisoner with a spoon sneaked from the mess hall. Tunneling and pushing out past trails and

And oh the silly battlefield of days before. An hour floating in a puddle of magnesium water. Breathwork and mind stilling in a chair called

I am nothing more, nothing less. Just a ray of light looking into a dirty, pulsing goofball play. At a shit-stained stage with second-rate actors.

Take your time. Take your fortune. A green that’s almost yellow. Sprawling nightshade leaves on a hillside. Purple horns blaring bird chirps past humming bees.

What would I tell you, Philos, from just at the cusp of the grave?  You tried too hard. You thought the other actors cared about

“It feels like a party every day. Hey Jesse!” said the college boy. I can and do manipulate my emotions at will. When I let