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.

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.

Ugly With An F

You are ugly, my sister, and covered in soot.
But don’t take my assessment to liberal heart.
I can tell you’ve been crying. Somehow this I know.
Any woman of your age has been through some woe.
A few decades ago, some gave you a fresh start.
Their intention was pure and their effort well put.

There are some kinds of ugly that don’t have an F.
There’s a spectrum for ugly, just as for ug-not,
But, my sister, your ug has an F upper case.
It’s a good thing my talent can brighten your face.
I like working with color. It soothes me a lot,
Just as working ingredients fancies the chef.

I can make you look pretty in heart and in mind,
And a spirit that sings your original song.
Does “America First” mean that you should be mean,
Or a harlot, or something somewhere in-between?
With some strokes of my own, you and I will belong
To a world more compassionate, loving and kind.

What Do I Bring To The Table?

What I bring to the table of life is but me.
I believe I have something of value to give
To society which it has not enough of.
If I can’t bring much else, then at least I’ll bring love.
To break bread in communion is reason to live
In appreciation for what’s caused me to be.

I develop my talent for dining in grace
With my fellow digesters consumed with the meal.
I have some table manners that tend to offend.
Often, I take a break when I can’t comprehend
Why I’m here in the first place. Is my hunger real?
When I choose to recover, I slip back in place.

I bring you to the table that we’ve built by hand
With much hard work and talent and strength of the heart.
I bring meaning to life in my own special way.
We are each someone special with something to say.
Our strong table is sturdy. It won’t fall apart.
We are all self-invited before all was planned.

I Am Always Becoming

I behold my reflection. What should I see there
But a mere mortal being? It is nothing more
Than an image, out there, and again in the mind.
If I gave it my loving, it wouldn’t in kind.
Indeed, it can do naught. It has never before.
If I fell in love anyway, would someone care?

I’m no longer a muffin. If ever I were,
For a time long enough to light up the world stage,
I’d have had plenty beauty… enough to believe
I could slay any dragons the world could conceive.
My good looks have been cancelled out due to my rage
When within the reflection, some calm I’d prefer.

I am always becoming who I’m meant to be
By my knowing my image takes nothing from me.
What I take from it can be a reason to praise
My Creator for trusting me with all these days.
Narcissistic behavior, most definitely,
Is my unconscious clinging to all that I see.

The Near Life Experience

Who are nearer to living life well every day
Than our children, who know that this life is a game?
They are carefree, yet helpless in so many ways.
They depend on us to guide them through the rat’s maze.
But when they reach adulthood, they’re not quite the same.
They may lose some of life due to spirit decay.

It’s a near life experience being with kids.
Their sincere effervescence is soup for the soul.
Put some kids in your presence, then watch the clouds lift.
They may cause us some chaos, but they are God’s gift
To a world that needs plenty of soup in its bowl.
They may teach us delight in whatever life bids.

To experience living well is to be young
In one’s outlook toward everything. Nothing is bad
Of itself unless it is a far away thing
From that which is alive and can make the heart sing.
There is nothing more sick than a child who is sad.
Perhaps nearness to death is where hatred has sprung.

From The Schoolhouse At Monster And Maple

We are living in savage times. Here, what you see…
This assault weapon. It’s what the serious use
When they’ve lost every hope of somehow blending in
With society’s madness. All heart is of sin.
If I think I see one who may have a short fuse,
I will do what I can to protect you and me.

But, don’t worry, dear students. I am fully trained.
My reflexes are sharp, and my judgement is keen.
I can spot ‘evil sickos’ a yardstick away.
I would shoot any person if I thought they may
Do the same to another, not whether foreseen
Nor withheld from the instant through fate ascertained.

I am now your Godmother, well-armed and prepared.
You will note that I don’t have a smile on my face.
That’s because our wise president wants me to be
Just as perverse as he is. I hope you can see.
It’s the rifle folk eager to run an arms race
And keep children who protest tormented and scared.

On Traversing The Span

If I could but aspire to traverse the wire
Of life without stepping on obvious pain,
Then will I have done well in avoiding the hell
That would cast doubt upon me that I can’t do well?
With some pain on my journey, there’s much room for gain.
If I say that out loud, does that make me a liar?

To compete with the barbs of life is a tough dance.
One must not only care about where one steps next.
One must overcome fear of big crowds and of heights.
One must tune out the noise and the bright circus lights.
One must keep oneself steady and not be perplexed
By the serious nature of one’s circumstance.

When the wire is kept taught, performing is good.
And although barbs are present, one’s footing is strong.
It’s in tune to the tightness, so balance is sure.
Life is better traversed with a consciousness pure
And a spirit that knows that nothing can go wrong.
I do traverse my best when this is understood.

The Mighty Metric Second

Thirty brief megaseconds is almost one year.
But when looked at it this way, may there be a chance
That I’d honor the short unit second much more
Than I did just a few milliseconds before?
I gain something from any conceived circumstance.
As the world waxes metric, I’ve nothing to fear.

Three point six kiloseconds is what it should take
For a car doing sixty to reach sixty miles.
Yet our miles may be mindful and metered to tell
All the world to get kiloed and cast in a spell.
Miles are steadfast notwithstanding fervent denials.
They may mop up the messiness metrics may make.

In six more decaseconds, this much can be said –
Nearly five hectoseconds it takes for sunlight
To traverse to the earth. This is significant.
“But to whom?” one might ask. I would say, “To the Plant!”
Eighty six point four kilos of seconds is right
For a well measured full day. It’s now time for bed.

Angular Momenta

It does not make a difference what I believe,
As my lines are prewritten, well-studied and played,
And wrapped tightly around me so that I can’t move.
I’m in love with life’s contrast and ready to prove
I can manage most any mass. I’m not afraid
As I give to momentum just as I receive.

Living gives me the right to see things my own way.
Many ways do encircle me. Some I adopt
And take care of, as, randomly, they move about
With velocities varied. I have not a doubt
That their moments of inertia cannot be stopped.
If my life were as linear, I’d love to play.

Yet I do play by default. What runs around me
Is what I have held onto by my will or not.
I could let them run freely, the ways that I own.
But if they don’t return, I would be left alone,
As my reason for living would be well forgot.
Might my ways be more friendly if tied to a tree?

This Has Never Made Sense To Me

The whole purpose of baking a cake, I would think,
Is to have it, then eat it. This makes sense to me.
It’s absurd then to say I can’t have what I’ve made.
And, what’s worse, I can’t eat it? Let’s drop the charade!
One can have cake in mind and in stomach, you see.
Labored having and eating may cause one to drink.

When I preheat my oven, then mix up a batch
Of my best-bellied batter to tittle the tum,
I can have that and eat it, then whip up some more.
If I run out of stuff, I’ll just run to the store.
There’s no theme philosophic I need overcome
So the cake that I have now can go down the hatch.

Take the X off that OR gate. I can have it all.
What is made, then consumed is but one perfect match
Made on earth and in heaven by how I perceive.
I appreciate that speech has naught up its sleeve
That the mind milled for meaning can’t easily catch.
I’ll have cake AND I’ll eat it, and not take a fall.


All alone in a CuntScape, at last, for a while,
I take in all I can with the senses at hand.
The thin smear in a dish may be what becomes me,
Yet the function is fettered if we only see
But a flesh of an orifice to a strange land.
Cunts will come out in force as men stand in denial.

I believe that it’s time that we put up a wall
Of warm, feminine flesh with its softness of touch.
Cunts can let themselves let themselves be beaten down
Just because they get nasty when dick is in town.
That dick masters in nastiness matters not much.
Put a cunt high in office, and let the dick fall.

Is it true that a cunt can behave like a  dick
In the open theater upon the world stage?
I believe so, but that matters little to me.
What a dick does, a cunt does, most definitely.
But a new breed of cunt force is coming of age.
Things will get hot and nasty, then change may come quick.

Self Help Solution

Oh, Go drink yourself sloppily! I’ve had enough
Of your running your circles around the fun park.
I am here to make merry – not here to make do
With a sense of self less than the sky is bright blue.
Though I’m not that Olympian, I make my mark
By my pumping out powerful poetic stuff.

All black men think they’re poets.’ Is such a remark,
In its absence of meaning, a mental workout
For the one who receives it? It does put a cramp
In my mind for a mile. Will I emerge a champ?
I make meaning of whatever I think much about.
If I think about bullshit, my outlook is dark.

So, I write of the fecal, as it falls my way.
That is not quite as often as one might perceive.
I’m an athlete. My well-crafted body is made
With some knack for the verbal, although I’m a spade.
If I cared about what others care to believe,
I’d be lost in a theme park with no will to play.

One Could Argue

One could argue. But why? Does it make any sense
To sound off to a brick wall that’s hot to the touch?
Walls of all kinds get built and reheated each time
There’s the feeling that there’s someone’s tree one must climb.
If one wins in an argument, does that mean much?
When life crosses the line, things can get quite intense.

Where is rightness or wrongness? Does God point the way?
If the One God could make up its mind… maybe so.
But one god tells the other god, “Damn you this day,
Because my god commands you to do it Our way.
If you don’t, then to hades your dark soul should go.”

It’s no wonder this world is caught up in dismay.

One could argue for righteousness and for world peace
As did many before us throughout history.
There’s a frankness in fervor for what one holds true.
Our diversity quandary is nothing new.
Many minds mitigate manifold mystery
In attempting to sort out which rightness must cease.

Ready To Be Ready

Life is full of momentum built up over time.
It accumulates quickly when we’re at our best
At creating whatever we most think about.
It may seem that it’s best to hold on to one’s doubt.
Yet, our readiness comes at our true heart’s behest.
When I choose to be ready, I get off the dime.

Having fallen from high, and with parachute none,
What advice would one give me, should I ask for some?
One might say, “Just hang on. It will be over soon,
And your soul may just vacate before flesh is strewn
On the pavement.”
I can’t easily overcome

What I’ve built up before me… before the long run.

I can dare to be ready to be ready for
The momentum I make in my meek-minded maze
By allowing each moment to see the next through
To the next, and the next, until each now is new.
I am here for the run of life – eager, always,
To be ready for more journey, forever more.

Eternity Is Just More Now

As the grains of sand pass through the sphincter of time,
Do they represent moments held dear to our hearts?
If they all did, then life would be much like a dream.
We might bore ourselves senseless since things always seem
Quite the same. We’d be wanting for frequent fresh starts.
We mix contrast with moments to make life sublime.

The concept of eternity boggles the brain
As the brain remains finite and part of the whole
Of the structure defining this physical place.
So, the brain has no substance – no more than its space.
Yet, within it all, there is the eternal soul.
If we discount this aspect, we may go insane.

The illusion that there is a problem with time…
That it needs constant maintenance, is held by some.
But time needs not a fixer. I know it to be
But a framework for what we call reality.
All eternity is where all nowness comes from.
To delight in my now gives full meaning to rhyme.

Things… Are Always Working Out For Me

Every Thing has a knowing. A consciousness is
Therein present and viable, whether or not
One believes that it’s so. Some believe it can’t be.
Yet our science has proven this to some degree.
Even thoughtforms are living. This can’t be forgot
Because as we’re forgetting, we get a pop quiz.

Things are made up of thoughtforms that have taken shape.
We give consciousness to them and then let them go.
They will cluster like stardust an act out in kind
With whatever vibration they are of like mind.
They exist to respond to us. That’s how we know
We exist in a world with no subtle escape.

Things are working out always for me and for all.
We are all things made up of things made up of life.
Therefore, thinking of things, and then feeling to see
If my thoughts are of value and satisfy me,
Is like cutting through soft butter with a hot knife.
Things are meant to act For me, as they I enthrall.

The Blissful Behind

The most blissful behind has not much on his mind.
That he has one is kind of a nuisance to him.
So he keeps the thing quiet. Most anyone can.
It takes some time and practice for woman or man.
Draw your shades, take your shoes off and make the lights dim.
As you do this more often, folks think you’re refined.

There is no one more kind than a blissful behind.
And quite by the same token, assholes are a pain –
Not in theirs but in mine. I must keep those away
Who would treat me unkindly and dare ruin my day.
As I meditate often, I’ve so much to gain.
I was meant to be loving, trustworthy and kind.

I’m no stranger to chaos. That’s why I must take
A brief time-out to let the old mind take a drain.
It’s a nice tool for bridge building. That’s a good thing.
But it needs counterbalance and soft nurturing.
If my behind can’t get it, I may feel the pain
For my being too negligent for my own sake.

Satanic Rapture

With six hundred and sixty six sins on my soul
I am ripe for a rip roaring rapturous rage.
I’ve completed my mayhem. It culminates now.
The next coming of Satan is certain somehow.
We can now disavow the Aquarian Age
As complete devastation has become our goal.

Make me weak in the knees and float lighter than air
As it all becomes darkened through chaos and smoke.
Let the air reach a flashpoint much lower than earth
That our hate may deny any chance of rebirth.
Many folks create horror through dreams they invoke.
We believe they are nothing. In fact, we don’t care.

I’m a beast of this nature that now has a rash
That is acrid and prickly, and sensitive to
All the subconscious inhuman cries of our hearts.
Simply looking within is where true rapture starts.
That our souls are renewable is known by few.
And this world we’re concerned with, someday, will be ash.

Our Daily Bread

Is the love of Our Father the love of mankind?
The man part of mankind may believe that it’s so.
But the woman part may have done well in its role
Had the tables been turned and they had much control
Of complex social structures. How much could I know
If I thought with my heart and I felt with my mind?

Yet I shouldn’t feel guilt should I cast not an eye
Upon what may distract me from what is my whole.
There is wholeness in everyone – even in he
Who believes he is hopeless most obviously.
Not a thing I can do can recover his soul.
As the next one ignores him, how soon will he die?

I’ve been down on my luck. I get out every day
And see all kinds of people – some needy… some not.
Then, I think of Our Mother. Who else could that be
But the woman who gave birth and took care of me?
We are cellular siblings. When put on the spot
We know daily delivery is the right way.

Virgin Eyes In The Jungle

There are many small eyes in the jungle these days.
Some are human and some can be rather high-tech.
And these woods we’re a part of form our own disguise.
May we watch as young virgins uncover their eyes
To pure visions of Indigo without a speck
Of the old social order and all its sick ways.

Virgin eyes don’t see chaos, though… Only Pure Light.
They shine wisdom upon things that seem based in fear.
When they act out or disrupt the normal discourse
Of malignant behavior and rule by brute force,
We should take a time out and lend them a sharp ear.
We were put here for loving. We’re not here to fight.

Virgin eyes versus spies is not quite the whole game.
I could wander far deeper in denseness of growth
To find things in the jungle that cause me unease.
If I see with my eyes what the virgin eye sees,
I may see where my place is and realize that both
My perceptions and attitudes cause me no shame.

Loud And Livid Delivery

Though one’s innards be livery, does all the bile
That accumulates due to frustration pent up
Cause the outburst of anger with volume of voice?
Is it sometimes predestined or always by choice?
If I sound off to others, am I the sick pup?
When I view this in hindsight, it seems it’s my style.

When I think you won’t hear me, I tend to get loud.
It’s a knee jerk reaction. I’ve little control.
Therefore I must stay vigilant of my ill beast.
I do lack others’ patience. I know that at least.
Perhaps long isolation would comfort my soul.
I’m a hothead. I’m neither ashamed nor too proud.

Sometimes ‘special delivery’ is the best way
To ensuring one’s intent is taken as real.
If my mood takes a nose dive, I must be prepared.
That our good times and bad times are equally shared
Is my premise profound toward the best way to feel.
I can let off some steam and still have a good day.


I do know why you’ve stopped me, dear officer, sir.
Your expression of disgust speaks louder than words.
Yet you need not concern yourself with all the smoke
As this weed that I’ve got here is truly a joke.
I have smoked lots of pot, but this stuff’s for the birds.
Take a toke for yourself. I’m sure you will concur.

What is up with good weed these days? It’s hard to find
And then when it is found one must pay due respect
To the in-between bastards who break the shit down.
I’ve been getting my stash, these days, from folks uptown.
I’ve smoked three joints, by now, but alas… no effect.
So, don’t bust me because I still have all my mind.

I’ve been smoking this shitweed. No good stuff have I
And it’s been that way always. I haven’t felt great
Since I visited Thailand some decades ago.
Their good shit got me wasted and moving quite slow.
So it’s not like I’m moving fine goods across state.
This old rotgut for pot here is not worth the try.

Just Here To Visit – Not Here To Stay

If I weighed almost half a ton, would ankles work
With four pairs of two screwed tight by no engineer?
How I ended up here seems a puzzle today.
Now that I’ve lost my parking space, then must I stay
In a constant upheaval endorsed by my fear
As most often I feel like a well-behaved jerk?

I’m not here to do odd jobs. Who told you that lie?
Was it me through deficiency in self-defense?
It can seem I’m the nice guy for doing jack shit.
It’s a subconscious bugbear that stings quite a bit.
I would tell folks to stick it, if I had some sense.
I don’t know what I’m doing, yet foolish to try.

Do most people fuck with me be because I am slow
In the mind a bit and of a social IQ
That’s as low as the oil stains on life’s garage floor?
I fucked up for you this time. I’ll do it some more?
I can do that so well. Surely I never knew.
Since I’m here for the visit, I might as well grow.

Depreciated Accumulation

Is the cost of true living more than life itself?
It’s a question that’s asked often this time of year.
Sam needs fistfuls of dollars to keep him afloat,
So he says, but the dollar is just a bank note.
It depreciates for those encumbered in fear.
There’s no wonder the leprechaun is a green elf.

To accumulate cash, then protect the big stash
From the hands of the state, is the story of life.
A balloon that’s inflated can hold lots of air.
But as soon as it bursts, there’s much cause for despair.
I make, cumulatively, my notions of strife
Such a reason to make life a paperwork trash.

I made out like a bandit this time. So did he.
Is the system so flawed that it can’t be that way?
…Just a few dollars shy of my having to claim
Any social security – My, what a game!
It is one, as I’m human, I’m willing to play.
I depreciate less when I’m willing to be.

Where Went The Sun?

There’s no sun anymore. Mommy, where did it go?
It seems all of a sudden dark clouds have appeared.
And where has all the color gone. Have we stood still
For so long that amusement can no longer thrill?
What can seem so outrageous is no longer weird.
If there’s not a safe ride, what is there I should know?

If you tell me the answer is nothing at worst
I’d delight in my knowing my mother is wise
Not to make divine providence something it’s not.
Neither state nor its deepness can hide from a lot.
But is such a bleak picture too harsh for my eyes?
If it’s not always daytime, are sometimes then cursed?

I think I know the answer, dear mother, since there
Is a guidance inside me and you. It’s the same
As the instinct that keeps creatures light on their feet.
That there’s darkness afoot is somewhat of a treat
…Often sillier than the old usual game.
We’re all in it for fun, and we need not beware.

The Best Cure For Toe Fungus?

Let us talk about toes – yours alone, by the way,
And that fungus they’re fettered with. You know it well.
Who am I to send email to you with advice
Randomly about getting your feet smelling nice?
Well, I must be an asshole. Most people can tell
By the sheer lack of meaning in what I dare say.

It seems, now, that my inbox and spam box are twins
Who play offense with insults and off-the-wall crud.
I’m a fish in this ocean. As you cast your net
Most escape by derision. You get what you get
When you’re dragging your lines way too deep in the mud.
What would you like to sell me as my patience thins?

You assume I have fungus as if the world knows
I’m a registered specimen stripped of his rights.
That’s not even the case. Where the Hell are you from?
You sneaked into my inbox like some kind of bum.
Yet, I’d be but a fool if my temper ignites.
I know no one but me is in touch with my toes.

As Thoughts Turn To Things

People’s thoughts turn to things just as birds flap their wings
As they transit from season to season each year.
Transformation is subtle as vision is fooled
Into seeing abrupt change. This is overruled
By our knowing that big dreams are vivid and clear.
What the mind can conceive of, the universe brings.

Eggs will turn into creatures of some kind, we know,
If they’re left to wellbeing and nature’s goodwill.
Did the egg come from nowhere? Or was it conceived
Of all thoughtform congruent and fully believed
To be viable for nature’s will to fulfill?
When thought blooms into being, then we tend to grow.

Thoughts could turn instantaneously into things
Were it not for this space-time and all of its laws.
It’s a good thing it’s that way. If we had no chance
To redact every bad thought, a grim circumstance
Would befall us. What’s worse is that we’d be the cause.
Dare to think with perception just as the bird sings.

A Sicker Present Means A Weller Future

I’ve come down with thick growth, but I’ve been here before.
It is not like I’ve never been sick in my life.
Yet, I tend to recover and get stronger still.
That my children betray me is not of my will.
They confuse what is natural with what is strife
And they act as if they think their mother’s a whore.

This disease that I have is not such a big deal.
I could take it or leave it, and I have my way
With all life that comes forth from me and by my grace.
I can beat my dear children at any arms race.
So, what reason is there to allow them to stay?
It’s a noble chance spin of the grand karmic wheel.

I will get better soon as this wave washes past.
There have been many wars now, and that’s a sure sign
That my children have grown up and will soon leave home
And find more earthlike planets to conquer and roam.
One might think that my sickness is rather benign
As it lacks in significance and cannot last.

Lorem Ipsum

What The Uckfay? I say in the odd-Latin way.
I don’t mean to hijack it to make verses rhyme.
But it’s there for my use if I need it. So what
If it’s triggered by language that fills in the rut
Of precise advertising for use anytime
When there’s dummy space needed for nothing to say?

Language is quite the dinosaur. It has it’s way
Of remaining quite cryptic in how it’s conceived
Over eons, although it can easily be
A most elegant means by which people can see
Deeper meaning in what all agree is perceived
As reality and what makes for a good day.

If the notion of dummy text makes any sense
It may come as an insult to folks of my kind.
Words can shoot from a fire hose or someone’s pen.
If we piss off all poets, what will happen then?
It should not get my strength nor my will misaligned.
There are text pumps afoot. I shall not take offense.