Archive | March 2017

Conjugation of Daho

Daho was made a state of the union one time.
It took pride in infinitive providence such
That its residents felt everything was just fine
Until when they took to a much better design
To include all the attributes grammar likes much
All to exhibit representation sublime.

A verb does have its voice. It also has its mood.
And on good days a good verb will sing a good song,
So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do.
Do not give a verb guff; it will predicate you
To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong.
Any verb can get nasty and treat someone rude.

So now back to the case of Daho. As we know,
To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past
Tends to make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well
So they came up with number and person to tell
All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed.
It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go…

I-Daho, You-Daho; He, She and It-Dahos…
Such is life on the west side where singulars stay.
On the east side there’s We-Daho; They-Daho too.
Since they’re plural, they get along fine with the You.
It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway
Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.

Lesson Review

Mar25

…Let’s begin this again; There Is Nothing Wrong Here.
Have I learned much too little from practicing life?
There is meant to be contrast; I like it that way
But upon my arrival, I speak of foul play.
To the beat of the drum and the trill of the fife
I must keep my thoughts focused on good will and cheer.

I am, and I know it, a fountain of speech
And since given this work I must see its way through
But should I stick to comedy and push aside
The more tragic components of life? I confide
In the wisdom of Inner Source who guides me to
The wellbeing I well deserve well within reach.

So, to be is to be and to not is to not.
I should emulate either or both as they are.
Who should give a rat’s ass about what’s up with me?
That’s perhaps not the issue. It’s simply to be.
When the task is just being, one’s mood ascends far
Into places where chronic dis-ease is forgot.

Verbal Plutocracy

Mar22

…I can’t use the word ‘android.’ It’s now just a name
Like so many unwary words hijacked these days.
If I use it, I risk myself being mistook
And whenever that happens, I seem like a crook.
Forget about ‘robots’ assuming our ways.
It has happened already. We’re hot in this game.

Some boy said ‘google’ one day on the floor.
‘Twas not even a word but has rolled into fame.
It’s grown moss on its own to the point where it’s now
The most baby-like utterance that we allow.
I applaud the fine youngster for making a name
For himself and for masses of others and more.

But I also commend the sharp critic in me
For observing how language can market its parts
And how war against structure continues despite
Futile efforts to stop it. So, does it seem right
That our words become ransom for few greedy hearts?
How immune to disaster must words have to be?

Reintarnation

Mar21

Does this count as a life? I don’t care either way
But only in the terms of the marrow and bone.
There’s too much going on; there is thickening air.
If the purpose of life is to love and to share,
Have I done much of either? I quest on my own
To unravel life’s mystery day after day.

This good life I am given may be near its end.
What sensation of taste does it leave in the heart?
I don’t care that I’m going; it bothers me not.
It is where that I’m going that soothes me a lot.
I just hope I don’t have to come back and then start
A whole brand new exposure to re-comprehend.

This damned world is a trip. Any creature would say.
And it ain’t like I’m troubled or deeply depressed.
I’ve just seen enough traffic on these busy streets.
I behold mass congestion’s miraculous feats
And I come to concluding that I should invest
In a starship where I would just then warp away.

Vacating Vacating

Mar19

We could visit the hotspot where old Humpty dumped
Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze.
We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick.
We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick
Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees.
Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!

What could be more deserving of travelers to be
Than to map a vacation from end until start
With every detail most recursively planned
So that all in the family will understand
That vacating is not a pure science, but art
And the spaces we visit may well set us free.

We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow
Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake.
But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right back here.
We could cancel our plans and then live without fear.
We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make.
Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?

Succeeding at Joy

Mar18

I hear joy is the product of drive and success
Where the drive is pure energy shaped by the mind.
The amount of the joy I let myself feel
Is a strong indicator success is for real.
This mantra math formula’s method is kind.
When I’m feeling my best, I’ve much love to express.

I do write about joy, and then, about pain
Not to give one a tour of emotional scale
But to leave fossil records in deep neural folds
In the cortex of consciousness. Nature beholds
That when I feel good I am best to avail
My soul of life’s treasures. There’s so much to gain.

The allowing of joy into life is the key
Though it’s oft’ better said than is actually done.
The trick is in tracking each moment with care
Being conscious of feeling and being aware
Of whatever’s uplifting and constitutes fun.
The equation is sound. Is that easy to see?

Don’t Fuck With Me, Nigger!

Mar17

Pump-a-Boooom! Pump-a-Boooom! What a plague to describe!
That rumble is distant yet headed this way.
There’s no denying that message is Force
And it’s done to disrupt my wellbeing, of course.
It’s on me to unravel this sick nigger play
And it baffles me so that we’re of the same tribe.

That Boooom becomes rattle, sustained to the max
As it draws ever closer, disturbing my space.
It’s riveting shock waves rip right through my heart.
You have mouths full of venom. I DO NOT take part
In the trashing of woman and verbal disgrace.
Pull your pants up, sound weapon; it’s time to relax.

When war comes to me, I don’t see it as race.
We are all sorely human, obsessed with our ways
Of extruding our phlegm from our psychotic clouds.
If you want your dick sucked, then go find the right crowds.
I’ve no need for your nodules of nebulous haze.
Get your pimping assed homies to cum in your face.

I don’t care who you’re talking to, boy. It ain’t me!
Keep your Noise to yourself and don’t shove me around.
I’ve a hair up my own; I don’t need yours as well.
There’s a place for your talent: With Poets In Hell.
I would hang you myself or else keep you well bound.
Am I proud we are brothers? I’d rather be Free.

Mirrors of Perversion

Mar12

‘If we don’t study past events, we’ll repeat them.’
Now, that foul brand of Jed Clampett logic begets
Every manner of discord and personal strife.
We can learn from mistakes but not make that our life.
We regurgitate sorrow and brand our regrets
Then we brainwash the young ones – it’s they we condemn.

What to think of a woman’s miraculous meat
Since there’s substance attached and a spirit within?
Some men think it’s a menace; it ties the world down.
Any man who supports it must be nature’s clown.
Any woman who speaks out commits a grave sin.
Although physically real, we are thought forms in heat.

Before calling one crazy, it’s good to ensure
That one’s own funhouse mirror is spotless and clean.
We are creatures who speak about God, then we kill
In the name of His Love, then we call that free will?
Our perversions are manifold and clearly seen
Through the eyes of our shadows whose sight is yet pure.

Boomers Bused

Mar9

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tall tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Our perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed spirit’s clear warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

What To Do With This Day

Mar5

What to do with this day… I don’t work anymore.
I do have a job, though, and that is to stay sane.
So I do that by making sure I’m thinking right
And by moving this body from sunrise ‘til night.
Put a shark in a jet stream and give it a brain –
That’s a screenshot of me focused dead to the core.

In a fishbowl where I alone circle around
Searching high and low for something novel to do,
I often find things I had prior misplaced
Then I take to rejoicing; I’m no longer faced
With believing those things were just gone without clue.
I am grateful for things that today will be found.

I will start this day off as I most often do
Feeling grateful I’m kicking and feeling at all.
Then I’ll get settled, comfy, with mint tea in hand
And embellish the wordsmith whose labor is grand.
My life, like my damned poetry, may seem banal
But it does keep me going and loving it too!

Belief in the Backdrop of Reality

Mar2

If I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t be here
In this space-time enigma where I must exist.
You say I’m a flesh and blood body with soul
On a spinning rock, tiny, yet part of the whole
Of a vast inter-multiverse? Need I enlist
My momentum of being, lest I disappear?

If I must believe something, there’s so much to choose
Of the myriad methods the mind has evolved
Just to ratify meaning where all may agree
That perceptions are billion-fold just as are we.
There’s no sign that this puzzle will ever be solved.
When I’m down the right rabbit hole, I’ll know the clues.

We’re devices with software that’s called our O.S.
Our programmed belief systems process the clues
Through arithmetic logic, machine cycled clean
So that all system users can never be seen
All at once. If that happened, then all would refuse
To believe much in anything – Then, what a mess!

The Magic Realist

A Poet's Path