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

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. Disolving 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

He says he doesn’t like pines because the pollens give him allergies. The lines on the road here look like birthday candles, and there is

Change, change, change. Delta gate two. Fat man in surgery mask parks nearby. Nerves straight into the skull via the teeth. Who would like a

And the Kalliope crashed to the ground.  Curbside delivery. Asking the morning sounds for a hint of what’s to come.  A meteor shower blocked out

So what is the opposite of this death thing? A dream? The lights on. Arising. Awakening. Understanding a pack of lies then knowing they’re lies.

How far away is death? So near. Death is the stopping of the heart, the ceasing of the brain.  The stillness of the fluids and

The sounds of whipping flame in the morning breeze.

Car tires hum across the street above.
The chime of the harbor mouth bell buoy

The puppy fails to grow fast enough for perception.
Tik tok.
The joke of all jokes – an app that burns life into insignificant ashes is named for the old devil who murders the moments.

And the veterinarian loved animals, so she played the part.

And I loved words and signed up for that one.

“But I’ve lost the words to find righteousness in thought, ” I said.

No belief is true. No. Belief. Is. True. Even this one.

You are everywhere at once.

You are as far as I can imagine.

Co-create the imagining, but don’t force it. Let it come. Your circumstance is ideal.

Your dying days are paradise.

A big black dog greets me at my door. And I see a beautiful blonde woman in the light. And a fingernail moon, and the

No matter what I do, it keeps throwing life at me.  The Jerusalem beetle got stomped out, and then in my pocket was a young,