Archive | March 2018

How Much Am I Allowing?

How much am I allowing? Or do dare I ask
Of a spigot controllable by me alone?
Does the knob need a turning to left or to right?
Then, how many degrees? What if it is too tight?
What flows into the bucket is more than what’s shown
To the eyes made of matter, the natural mask.

The life force that sustains me is fluid, at base.
It expands or contracts to get in everywhere
Any force wants to take it, assuming the shape
Of that which may contain it, not wanting escape
On its own, whether conscious and fully aware
Or intangible, totally, thus without grace.

Life is given to me. I shall give in return.
I contain what flows through me for use while I’m here.
The world may dip within it. In fact, be my guest.
Easily, what is fluid, someone can digest.
What I do for a living, now, can’t cause me fear.
I survive quite amazingly without concern.

The Shift

When The Shift, as it happens, is one of the heart,
There can be none of greater importance to me.
It’s a move toward abundance from living in lack
And a shift from the worldly, that I may get back
To the way of the spirit. I most want to be
Part of all that I come from with much to impart.

It’s the upshift from lower to higher mindset
That I may become used to as I am prepared
To await the incumbent awakening of
A new consciousness worldwide conceived of pure love.
That beats scanning the news for stuff to make me scared.
Have the gears of smooth transmission shifted quite yet?

There’s a shift in the moment. Each one is a change
From one view to the next. Each one offers a choice
That I make in the moment for darkness or light.
No one needs special knowledge to know what is right.
As the world’s masses gather and speak with one voice,
The big Shift becomes viable and nothing strange.

The Barrier Transparent

Once I walked into glass… ‘couldn’t tell it was there.
And I felt like an asshole. Folks laughed themselves sick.
As for me… I was dazed, and I didn’t care much.
I have near perfect vision, yet I need a crutch.
Perhaps clicking like bats do would be fantastic.
Not a thing I could see through would become a snare.

Often glass is a ceiling. Sometimes it’s so high
That it cannot be seen by the one who grows tall.
If one ascends too quickly, before very long,
He may strike what is unseen and feel he’s done wrong.
In that way, such a ceiling can be a brick wall.
What is hopeful is that one can still see the sky.

Some things should be transparent, and some things should not,
Is, I guess, what I’m saying, not knowing from where
I find such things to write about, and that’s OK,
Just as long as I let spirit echo my way.
Surely flying through glass cannot cause me despair
As I keep myself focused with all that I’ve got.

Begin When It’s Easier

I will start when it’s easier to comprehend
All the chaos outside me – inside me as well.
There’s so much I could focus on. Some of it’s good.
Yet it’s hard to find, and hard to be understood.
I perceive much that is me. Within that I dwell.
I could push stuff aside, but that seems not the trend.

They behave much like pinballs, the eyes as they bounce
From one source to the other for dopamine hit.
Have I seen what I wanted? Have things become clear?
They just get more confusing and laden with fear.
I’m addicted to garbage, sometimes I’ll admit.
Toxic content delirium I can denounce.

Is this nation in disarray? It looks that way.
So, that means I’m in error. No mess I need clean
But the one in the mind that I made on my own.
I can start seeing better with crap left alone.
There’s a saner world out there that is clearly seen
By the one in alignment and not led astray.

The Question Is NOT the Answer

Don’t keep asking the question. The answer can’t come
In the midst of my asking, then asking some more.
As like poles of the magnet will surely repel
Strongly each other’s presence, this doesn’t bode well
For attracting the answer that I’m looking for.
This is counter-intuitive, but not to some.

When I ask, it is given, the moment I ask.
The kind cosmos receives it, then takes it to heart.
It is much like a heart. It’s a pumping device.
And whatever I ask for, it doesn’t think twice
In providing the answer. The cosmos is smart.
As much as I allow, it performs any task.

Is it wise to consider the magnetic mode,
Where receiving and giving are opposite ends
Of this segment of being? I have little doubt.
I must feel for life’s answer in stillness devout.
Is the answer forthcoming? Well, that all depends
On my mode of receiving all that is bestowed.

Talking Oneself Off the Ledge

I am told life is precious, including my own,
By behavioral science and men of the cloth,
But not by those who would leave me out on the ledge.
It is up to me only. To thy own self pledge
To remember the big picture – not the thin swath.
Any vision from that space is fear overgrown.

 I may long for the tunnel, then pure loving light
That I don’t seem to find here in this blurry realm.
What I see down below me I don’t want to face.
Down there needs not another. It would be disgrace
To give up such a fine face to life overwhelm.
What if I suffered greatly? That would kind of bite.

That is hardly the point, though. There are many ways
One may take matters drastically into one’s hands.
There are things about living that I may despise,
And my focus on those things would be my demise
Had I not a defense for life’s unmet demands.
There’s no hope in the pavement. There’s no need to gaze.

A Room With Some Padding

…Just a room with some padding. I don’t need a view.
I don’t want to see what it’s like on the outside.
What is out there is nowhere. I’m no one to it.
People treat one another the way they see fit.
Am I mad if I seem to be full of self-pride?
If you say so, there’s nothing much else I can do.

I can get used to white, though it does hurt my eyes.
Can you keep the lights dim enough so I can’t see
That I’m banging my head on whatever I find?
Were I made to see brightness, I might well go blind.
There is no mind more lost than the one that can be
Locked away due to mere obsolescence endwise.

I believe I’m a poet, still. Don’t say I’m not.
I embrace my delusion. Belief is steadfast.
Some who craft only bullshit get on fairly well.
To pretend to not understand me is pure hell.
If I don’t think about it much, I will have passed
Through a dark, psychic fugue, but with torment forgot.

Perceptual Pineality

I perceive the pineal the same as most do.
Some don’t know a thing of it, nor care that it’s there
At the center of consciousness, deep in the brain.
Those who think they aren’t psychic are foolish to feign
Disability, knowing we can be aware
Of that which is perceivable through subtle view.

 That our eyes are a threesome most people have heard.
There are two for the physical, and one evolved
To conceive the unknowable, when one learns how
To relax into mindfulness and to allow
Pure reception. My issues with life are resolved
As my vision is sharpened and spirit is stirred.

Some may feel it’s a spare eye. To others, it’s prime.
It depends on which world we most operate in.
Both the spiritual world and the denseness of earth
Are domains coexistent – each one giving birth
To the other. The veil grows increasingly thin.
We commute to and from pretty much all the time.

Passive Retentive Anal Aggressive

I am not anal, doctor. I wipe only once.
And that one time is surely enough, I would say,
Because I do things thoroughly, taking my time
To make sure all is tidy and absent of grime.
I would say I’m fastidious. That sounds OK.
When you say that I’m anal, I feel like a dunce.

Often passive retentive, I keep to my own
Little world of becoming. I seek no advice
To propel me through some worldly crisis, you see.
I just come to you because that way I can be
Most flamboyant with my deepest secrets. It’s nice
To soul dump on some stranger who is judgement prone.

So, what else can you tell me, aggressive assed one?
I am ready to hear all that you have to say.
I know Freud was a coke head and mental blacksmith.
Let us cut to the chase and get rugged forthwith.
Playing with this absurdity brightens my day.
When I’m bored with my dull life, I see you for fun.

The Hell Out Of Dodge

Let us talk about Dodge again. It’s a nice place.
Though I haven’t quite been there, nearby is OK.
Though I think of disaster when this town is named,
It has no more than elsewhere. So why is it famed
As some hell to depart from and get far away?
I do wonder if people there live in disgrace.

‘Get the Hell out of Dodge!’ It’s expressive, in ways,
Of the chaos that comes with the limits of speech.
We can color the notions of panic and fear
With illogical thoughtforms that aren’t very clear.
We adopt our weird sayings, though often we reach
Some acute understanding amid verbal haze.

Dodge is fine, I would hope, and its residents too.
They would have to have long gotten over this joke.
When one needs to get out of someplace really fast,
No particular city should ever be cast
In a cloak of obscurity. We owe these folk
Some relief from our warped ways. It’s long overdue.

On The Zest Of Zippid E. DooDaah

I’ve made up with the DooDaahs in whole or in part.
What the bird thinks he’s saying is through the artist
Who created him as his own alter ego.
Through the lines of the character, we come to know
Deep within the rose velvet, there is a tight fist
That is poised to punch poignant those of a meek heart.

Does the gentleman bluebird waste much of its time
Hanging out on the shoulders of arrogant fools?
If he does, he’s a DooDaah. That matter is fact.
Then to call the bird ‘mister’ is not how to act.
That it’s blue matters somewhat, according to rules
Interweaved in the fabric of nature’s high crime.

You are right, Mr. DooDaah. It is a fine day.
We each wax satisfactual to our own tune.
I don’t whistle my doodaahs out loud out of fear
That some actual DooDaah would hand me a spear.
Then I’d raise it and yell something strange to the moon.
When it comes to the DooDaahs, I am not their prey.

White Rabbit

We have all lost our minds. That much I can recall.
But not much beyond that, I am happy to say.
I’ve a timepiece that not only tells me the time.
It will tell me I’m much too late to make that climb
Down the me-hole, where all things behave quite my way.
Would I get there in time if I entered freefall?

How did I lose my memory? And is it right
That we carry on smartly assuming our roles
In this card kingdom, not knowing from whence we came?
Would it be such a riddle were all cast the same?
Does the Master Card Dealer reshuffle our souls
And then redistribute them, perhaps, out of spite?

I am not the white rabbit – at least, not today.
I have regained some memory, not knowing how.
We have come here to act like we’re cards in a deck.
We, most often, are each other’s pains in the neck.
And, poor Alice is grown. She’s in therapy now.
It’s a curious card came that we’ve come to play.

Snarklingate, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I am not quite a hermit cat. I need no shell
But the air that surrounds me in sparkling sunlight.
If I blink my eyes thrice, I know they are still there.
And my little ones love me, as for them I care.
It is nice basking freely. My future is bright.
I have taken this bird’s nest. Within it I dwell.

Did they leave rather peacefully – those that were here?
Or did they see us coming and fly fast away?
Heaven knows. My concern is with moving about
In a world where I freely determine my clout.
If they’d stayed, I’d have eaten them. That’s just the way
I behave with my feathered friends. I am sincere.

For now, I am content. I do purr with the best
From a humble twig dwelling that’s fit for a king.
If I tweeted or meowed, they would both sound the same.
Whether singing or winging, all life is a game.
I do either or both as I do my own thing.
I have not much regard for the feathered oppressed.

Where The Heck Is That Product Key?

I’ve become like a hound dog, and that’s not my style.
I’m in search of my product key, therefore, I’m hot
On the trail of a wild goose located somewhere
Underneath my computer. But it is not there.
If it smelled of some number, that would help a lot.
If I don’t find the damned thing, I’m stuck for a while.

That the product key matters is easy to see.
The need is most obvious to those who make
Software products, to keep the game played fair and square.
But if I lose track of one, then I can beware.
There’s a hell one must go through who makes that mistake.
If I contact the seller, he’d likely agree.

Keep your product key copied and stashed everywhere,
But nowhere near your passwords or favorite bookmarks.
That way if you lose it, it is everywhere found.
If the computer crashes, then you won’t feel bound.
Simply having technology too often sparks
More entanglement than I can easily bear.

What Am I Receiving?

In the swamp of reception, there’s much to perceive.
Any mouth with the means may make much of the air.
We each have every right to speak what’s of the heart,
In the mind… and to whomever one needs impart
One’s own point of view. Is it wise to be aware
Of what I am receiving while set to believe?

What remains quite amazing is that we each see
A reality unique unto what is known.
If I say it’s a swamp, one may swear it’s a lake.
To erupt in disorder would be my mistake.
We force feed our realities until full grown.
Then, too often, we feel that the world should agree.

Any swamp can get murky, and it can come clean,
And be lit by the brightness of full clarity.
What I listen to regularly has effect
On myself and the outcome. I’m free to select
Any cry from the swamp that speaks something to me.
I receive, most apparently, what is unseen.

Stop Keeping Score

I know well that this life is an intricate game,
And I make it that way, just as everyone does…
That is, those who have been here for quite a long time
That the game mystifies them. Then winning is prime.
But, it’s not about score keeping. It never was.
We  can take away sports props and still play the same.

Mine may measure quite smaller than yours does right now.
Yet, I needn’t catch up with you. That makes no sense.
My own path through the deep woods may not be as yours,
And that’s surely a blessing. The forest ensures
That all paths lead to one place, and that’s not a fence.
I care less about winning than I can allow.

This life game is well played if I stop keeping score,
As if making comparisons brightens the soul
Of the better one. That’s not the point of this game.
It has something to do with all being the same
In our will of expression. It may be my goal
Just to bask in my playing while asking for more.

Performance Anxiety

I enjoy performing. I’m anxious at times,
Thought I don’t really need to be, and I’m not proud.
My anxiety sets in along with self-doubt.
I don’t care if you boo me or don’t check me out.
I’m sure someone who’s out there will find me endowed.
It’s for that one who I strut. My happy heart chimes.

When I see what excites me, my heart does a dance.
It expands to full color for all eyes to see.
Do you find me exciting? You may or may not.
I will find the right one who will think that I’m hot.
And if not, I’ll continue most confidently.
The best part of my living life is the romance.

Not all like my performance. They have every right
To delight in the things chosen with a pure heart.
I delight in performing. I think we all do.
Every scene I appear in is stunningly new.
If I thought much about it, that wouldn’t be smart.
My own world is my stage, and the sun, my spotlight.

Bless Every Damned Thing!

What the hell can I do but bless every damned thing?
I can’t beat the sick bastards. They’re nowhere in reach.
If I hold a stiff grudge against that which I hate,
My heart welcomes disease, and then death is my fate.
All the hate that’s around me is ready to teach
Me that what I give focus to, this life will bring.

All the crap that is wrong with this life I must leave
At the doorstep of doom where it rightly belongs.
Every sap sucking asshole who’s dead or alive
Gives me reason to know if I chose to deprive
Myself of true alignment that rights many wrongs
Of my world, I’d be less in a space to achieve.

Bless the whole screwed up world. It must matter to me
That I keep myself happy instead of damned right.
Every crotchety bitch and demented old man
Surely got that way thinking that they were less than,
So that now they are ready to take full delight
In expressing disgruntlement most artfully.

I Need You Right Now

I am needing you now, friend. I’ve no time to waste
Standing here watching you grow. It’s been a few days.
Do you not know your purpose? Well, I do know mine.
I must have supper ready so my guests can dine.
Will you speed up your growth rate? I’m sure you have ways
Of placating my arrogance and will misplaced.

If you won’t grow, we’ll eat you, as small as you are.
Is it better to trip than to keep a straight head?
Mine’s screwed on right, but yours seems arrested in place.
I can’t feed my folks folly. It’s you they embrace.
Could I serve them your roots in a light tea instead?
Grow up NOW, errant seedling! Don’t act so bizarre.

It’s a fact that I need you now only because
I give you my attention too much of the time.
Any seed that I plant now will take time to grow.
That all time is eternal is helpful to know.
In the meantime, my patience is rendered sublime.
I can give up my tweaking of natural laws.

Wholly Preserved

I am wholly preserved in a whole way of life
Based on profit and making goods lesser than good.
My consumption embalms me. What I eat contains
Every toxin conceived that can flow through the veins.
If I could do without food, I certainly would.
It is not good that eating should cause someone strife.

I’m concerned about shelf life as they are shelf death.
When the spirit decides it should leave its abode,
It should do so because it’s the next thing to do –
Not because one has eaten that which is not new.
Seems with all the preservatives, movement is slowed
To a long, labored crawling until the last breath.

How does nature preserve me? Or does it at all?
I could read product labels ‘til blue in the face.
I could seek diet gurus and shell out much cash
To detox my sick plumbing with colonic splash.
But the body’s own knowledge I should well embrace.
What I give it for nourishment is my own call.

The Performing Arts Channel

We could take on some flesh and hang out for a while
In the mind of a living soul tied to the earth.
He may think that he’s thinking his thoughts, but it’s we.
And the more that he realizes this, he will see
That our presence has guided him ever since birth.
If he challenges this, then he’s left in denial.

We are spirit performers – those fleshed and not.
That which man calls ‘keen insight’ is usually us
Feeding you the right lines to get what you want done.
It is not quite our job. We just do it for fun.
As you hear us more clearly, soon you will discuss
Ways of working with spirit’s benevolent plot.

You are each and all channels for us every day…
Only when you’re receptive to our subtle act.
On your earthly stage, you are performer and prop.
Your advantage is guaranteed. You Can Not Flop.
And although your existence is rooted in fact,
Kindly acts of the spirit will not go away.

The Present Is Past


Has my now whizzed right past me, yet I have not seen
That it’s done so, while my sharp attention fell short
Of the sight of my own path? Am I far away
From the now, where I want to be? What could I say
To the life left behind me that it would support
My advancing along to a future serene?

That’s a bunch of tough questions. Could I write all that
On a sign big enough that it catches life’s eye
As it passes me, standing, with somewhere to go?
I will get there in time that I’ll know it, although
Every now that I’m after will then say good bye.
I get by on my feet. I don’t have life down pat.

I can turn and move forward. My now stays in place
As I keep the mind focused on what is ahead.
Then, it feels like I’m driving. I am in a car.
Though it’s made out of flesh, it can get me quite far
On my path through eternity, blissfully tread.
I have nothing but nowness, then more, to embrace.

Better Business

“Nine to Ninety-Nine Business Weeks, Sir!” That’s how long
It will take to respond to your urgent request.
Please bend over until about ninety degrees
So when we stick it to you, we’ll do it with ease.
If you want to complain to us, then be our guest.
We don’t post contact info, though that may be wrong.

Say you’ve dropped your bJesus card on the rail track?
That is how we perceive it. Did we get that right?
Well, we’ll send you another. But, Oh, by the way,
You’ll incur some discomfort and maybe dismay.
You’re a fuck up, dear customer… and not too bright.
Let us put you on hold, sir, then we’ll be right back.

…Oh, did we disconnect you? We’re sorry. Please know
That our job is to Serve you. We do that our best
From a call center ten thousand miles far away,
And through thick scripted accents programmed to convey
Only policy… most often mocking the stressed.
We do value your business like piss in the snow.