Just when I think I have made a positive imprint, I find ‘tis not so. A relationship can trigger me, one email set me to firing full throttle. It has been a “scare” at times how much anger rises, an unexpected eructation – forcing gravity up – volcanic – my closest word is tripwire. I’m paying attention as I go. However, I need to power that with a lot more intention.


(Remember how I said it feels like someone is rifling through my memories?  Experiencing my experiences, tugging now-me along for the revisit? Remember how I thought it might be my life passing by? Studying up for my Life Review?)

I could not be now who I was in any of these snapshots tossed in front of consciousness. I have forged my own memories & ideas I took from them, or maybe with them. The moments when I wanted to be another ride the farther side of the merry-go-round in a tidal lock.


M. batted away ideas like cats do yarn balls… especially if they involved improvement. His standstill propelled me into action. He was enjoying his entropy & I could no longer bear witness to his severe “weltschmerz” (world-weariness).

E. & I paralleled for a time & he gave me [of his] life. A most beautiful & timely surrender on both sides. For all I knew, I knew less then than now.

D. & I met too early & me too bedazzled. We were there for Ellen.

It turned out the one I married is me. Was that why I ate all that cake for a decade?

Going fearless is going stealth. You turn sideways & slip into universe to disappear.

I stand today at the intersection of Ready/OrNot.

I cannot shatter a mirror & not be cut passing through. What I do with the wound is up to me. I bow my head with the responsibility as the radio sings “have mercy.”


The End Includes A Beginning

It is not enough to know that the end is near (if this is what you believe) or that it will be at all happy over the long spells of time classifications we are inured (bonded? branded?) to live.

What real thought is being given to what you are doing? What learning has lasted thru the ages is that of the Classics. Being around the longest, these carry the weight of having dredged through so many minds they are left behind after move-outs, repurposed & in that way carried forward with everything magnetized along the way. We eat each other’s earth all the time. Round or flat, it’s a closed system so we continually breathe each other’s air. My earth can support me. Why cannot ours support us all?

In a closed system, everything must run according to the last running thing. Deus ex Machina. The story gets passed along to the next to be embellished or pared down. Right now, we live in a word desert, the most lack of imagination among the collective consciousness. Words are gutted of meaning, brought down from the Great Table as bubble gum. Perhaps it is a meaning desert. Vague repetitions of slogans replacing language. Emojis replace emotions cuz people don’t have the words.

This morning, for me, there is a tug of history threading my spine…a few passes over the Internet have fired me up. The books I just finished have fired me up. The music given to me to hear by chance discovery & rolling the dial on Pandora has fired me up. All these firings are seeking one another in my brain. I can feel them doing so…I encourage them for the most part. I understand these last points I pick up in life as learning have, hold, and relay, the best resonance to how I’ve lived my life so far. I read once that after the kids are raised & most life-housekeeping stuff in hand, the time arounds to thinking, “what’s next?” It generally enters that care of the soul at a personal level is that.

And here I am. This is when the tiny muse buried in the soil of my soul chooses to sprout. She is the unification which will occur when the firings reach their own “brainiacal” joining. If I’m not making sense now, there’s a good chance I need to find the place where I will . . . where this will.

Suddenly all the mythic & magic I enjoy reading lays a rail alongside the technology I watch with a kind of stupefied fascination.

Social media is anything but either of its names.

I am compartmentalizing far less than I did. If a work does not align with a pathway whereupon I walk, I move off from it. I have become familiar to all the voices speaking at once, I have become one of them. Simultaneously, I’ve moved on from outside voices to inward. These swell the chorus immeasurably.

Harmonies manifest.

It is safe to become a stranger to the life so many want to be living. It is okay to disconnect to a less busy-fied way. I have no close family raised within my mythology. Most friends are too busy for abstract discussion. Now, what I grew up with is easiest to do as stand-up: “remember dial phones?” jokes.

What is simplest for me to know now & ally with now are the more “esoteric knowings” which have become acceptable as a “mainstream, allowed kookiness” – the separate source of knowledge always out there on the fringes but around so long they’re now popular, familiar, & fraught with promises to continue deepening into the center of the world.

Thing is, the direction is up. Why aren’t we facing up?

I am in dire need of silence. Even if what I get is only a grave’s worth, it is enough.



Poets are thieves

Making off with the best words.

Hoarding them for careful distribution.

You cannot tell a poet much

Has not already crossed their mind.

Quarters in a piggybank

Turning into silver dollars

Coming out of the belly –

Runes & reads & roads

Everyone counting every one.


From living language

Arcane & mottled

Visible only to the see-r

The ti-leaf reader

Appearing from the cards

Like images of medieval life

Depicted in peelings

Left in runes in the sink

Gathered for composting minds

Forever nourishing.


Of words

Skies sweeping by of a patchworked day

Everything having a voice, telling its own story

Some listening: write it down,

Lest it just run off brazen rooftops

Into gutters








Crystalline rainbows

Dappling the stubborn vacuum

I roll across them.

Vain undertakings

This two-step dance of cleaning

Vacuuming rainbows.


Is the new 7 a.m.

All those mornings I rose before dawn

That light would find me out upon the sunrise.

I now reclaim the nights,

All the stars I did not see

Shining still so patiently.

Now it is not just mornings

When I am

But whole motherships of night

On the other side of the clock.


What if this life was the preview to the real event?

A prelude, the someone laying the red carpet was me

I liked the feel of it & climbed on up

Following worn & wary dreams to arrive

Where I need no defenses,

I made my own way

To where I shoved my suspicions under the bed

I made my way.

Now can I shine?


Suspicious of such good weather, I am.

The tender center of midday

Sealed by the hunkering night;

My heart counts down beats now.

Idly wondering will I be happy in the Hereafter?


Weedy & overgrown

The yards of my childhood

Good to cut across to shorten the way

Blue uniform, cloth coat, Buster Browns

Crushing crunchy growth.

Mind stratospheric: ablaze!

Body trudging home from the schoolbus stop

Lopsided with a leather schoolbag

A Lone Ranger lunchbox (featuring Silver.)

Of two minds about homework

But well-acquainted with inevitability

Consigned to childhood’s compartmentalization

Free as the sky / sand / sea

All my boundaries

Bled out to edges

Of omnipotence.


Of my heart

On its own riff

Tipped over the lever

Into countdown

As faithfully as it counted up

To here.

Where we are now,

Feeling the world

As a flashlight does the night land.

Now it starts a little flicker

Pushing out the limits

Of all achieved before.