Archive | January 2018

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.

Now That I Can Tweet

Do you love me sincerely now that I can tweet?
I’ve been practicing steadily all just for you.
I can twitter my ass off and do every day.
Many twits do this also with not much to say.
Can my fistful of characters offer some clue
To the ones that I’m tweeting to whereof I greet?

Watch me now, as they say. With the swipe of the thumb
I can instigate mischief or shed light on truth.
Within moments the world knows what I want it to
And it doesn’t take much to show others my view.
It would work out much better were I in my youth
But in light of all that I can tweet like the scum.

I can tweet with the best now and also the worst
As I learn to parse giblets of thought into place
So that dim-witted twit folk can follow along.
I can tweet like a mother, so don’t get me wrong.
I shall stock up on bird feed for now just in case
I’m elected Top Twit. Now, that would be a first.

My Darned Bowels Are STILL Ailing

What is up with my innards? They’ve got me again
Doing side twists and wishing that I were a plant.
Seems that bowel gets so cluttered so often that I
Would trade guts for some green leaves. I do wonder why
Normal folks crap with ease but some people just can’t.
That damned bowel’s been a problem since I don’t know when.

On the top shelf, I’ve shitters, bowel blasters and such
Though the medicine cabinet too is a mess.
I’ve got paraphernalia to rig the rear end
For extreme irrigation that I may impend
A prophetic bowel movement with no second guess.
I have glycerol bullets that I don’t use much.

If I cleaned up my act a bit, that might do well
To address this most chronic non-movement of mass
Through my system. I’ve tried everything that is known.
I’d have nothing to lose and perhaps I’d be shown
A new outlook and how to make up with my ass.
Too much damned information? I’m damned glad to tell.

If Desire Is Strong

What is ‘real’ don’t mean jack if my wanting is strong
In the way that it eclipses any self-doubt.
I create much like magic when I’m at my best.
When I’m truly excited I can’t take a rest.
There’s a cosmic religion toward which I’m devout.
I’m eternally baptized. That’s why I belong.

I’m a freak for the analog. Try as I may
To weave fabric of sense of all divergent cloth,
Something still doesn’t fit right. Then I must adjust
My grand theory a little with little distrust.
Life’s technique draws me near as the flame does the moth.
Were life not a fine riddle, I’d have naught to say.

Either lifting is easy or there is no weight.
When the spirit is high, the real world is there too.
So there’s no need to rev up the simple machine.
Only stuff that is heavy and folks who are mean
Would require a tested technique tried and true
To maintain oneself in a more positive state.

No One Is Gone

I could look at it this way… I’m not here at all.
I exist in a non-place, so ‘here’ cannot be.
From that non-ness of space-time within the non-place
Every soul that wants wisdom will gladly embrace
Any opportune chance to emerge physically
To live life on a blue-green, immaculate ball.

I existed, then, long before I became flesh.
Every thing that exists comes from that which does not.
What defines the eternal is infinite speed
In a world I deem finite. I harbor the need
To converge the two worlds and give all that I’ve got
Then return to the not-world, that I may refresh.

I existed forever, but right now, I me
In a physical casing subjected to laws.
The earth body is finite. It will turn to dust.
It obeys that law faithfully. Indeed, it must.
But the life force that is me considers what was
Then moves on to meet others whomever they be.

Queens And The Cosmos

There are queens who have means of commanding the lives
Of their many offspring through their chemical cue.
They are built into nature – the six-legged queens.
And the human ones conquer by whatever means
That they deem are appropriate to what is due
Of whom they think are children of theirs in their hives.

Nature’s queens affect neurons. Ours do that as well.
The same circuitry links us in myriad ways
Like when birds of a flock all change course at one time.
There’s an unconscious rulership where I know that I’m
In the mode of receiving my ration of praise
For the work that I do by my passion to tell.

I can be a fine worker or drone if I will
But to mind my own business, which might be the same
As all inter-transactions occurring on earth
Ever since it first cooled down long after its birth.
So that means I’m a ‘team player’ in the big game.
But by default, I have my own dreams to fulfill.

Am I Ready For What I’ve Asked For?

If I’ve cash on the brain, does that make me insane?
…Only if it makes others so in the same way.
I’m insane about gaining a foothold on wealth.
I’m that way on the outside and also by stealth.
Where there’s green to be gotten I’m willing to play
Whether nighttime or daytime, in sunshine or rain.

What is it that I ask for in total belief
That I’ll get it as surely as I do partake
Of abundance of fresh air and soothing sunshine?
Everything that exists is essentially mine.
I look forward to that day when I will awake
With the knowing of how to make green every leaf.

Am I ready for that? That is all up to me
In the way that I handle each day as it comes.
If I remain in focus, things will turn out right.
If I look at the obstacles and get uptight
I will end up in time begging others for crumbs.
I can see clearly that I must nourish my tree.

What A Grip Has The Barb?

We are quick to give gestures. We do so in praise
Of all goodness… or evil. Which one is the case?
It’s a simple hand symbol of hundreds, perhaps,
But its manifold meanings can catch us in traps
When we try to read minds and then try to give chase
To the compounded error in logical ways.

Certainly it’s a neat thing to do with one’s hand.
We can show off to birds saying, “You can’t do this!”
After all, they can mock us because we  can’t fly.
As they fly they oft’ say to us, “Give this a try!”
When one flashes this symbol, one does so in bliss.
Those who give it receive it, and both understand.

So, the barb has a firm grip on some people’s minds
And it may play a part in their lives in dark ways.
Many do so in love though. So what can go wrong?
Love remains quite the stronger. It sings a true song.
It’s a hand job we’re stuck with. Let’s stick it in praise
And good will toward whomever the loving heart finds.

Deep Meditative State

When I meditate I enter such a Deep State
That I lose all awareness of things that go on
In this world. What… a world? There is none that I know
Except that one where consciousness matches the flow
Of the lightforce that is me by light’s early dawn.
What e’er goes on about me, I feeling just great.

Is the Deep State apparent the same as the one
That is not, as the namesake suggests it may be?
I don’t give a rat’s ass but I do take relief
In my knowing my Deep State is one of belief
In a manner that others are free not to see.
When consumed in life’s drama, no growth has begun.

Some who say I’m too ‘deep’ for the mainstream to take
Might take notice how deeply we all are a part
Of a multiverse massive. It functions without
A deep statehood of men thinking they have some clout
In directing world order devoid of heart.
The most potent Deep State is the one that I make.

The Mission

The sole mission in life is to mitigate strife
If one lives by the banner of chaos and fear.
That’s a life lived in sorrow – not one lived in joy.
If my goodwill is tainted, I’m doomed to destroy
Any hope that I’ll fly if I but persevere.
My big mission and I are as husband and wife.

I may speak of my mission, and do every day
Yet my words are not teachers of that which is known
In the hearts of all beings. Experience serves
As the best teacher complete with awesome reserves.
May I act out my mission so that I am shown
What is best for my choosing the least troubled way.

I could sum up my mission in so many words.
I believe simple syllables mean no one harm.
They are put here in front of my eyes so that I
Know that I tried to be here before my goodbye.
This strange life and its lessons can sound no alarm
But to let me know that I’m as free as the birds.

That Which Henpecks The Henpecker

That which henpecks the henpecker henpecks in style.
Not a meek man controller commands every thought
Of the mind of the man that must be occupied
With the other one’s pleasures. There’s nowhere to hide
When a man feels by default that he may be caught
With desires of his own that he’s had for a while.

It is true that the henpecked attracted their plight
Whether knowing or not by the way of the heart
If the gift of prime pecking rights is one that works
In a way that allows for him getting good perks.
Co-creating can be blissful right from the start
With no pain to endure nor no will to indict.

…A dessert in a desert devoid of a dream
Of a life outside being of silver for one
Who is not that deserving, though that may sound cold.
The meek heart that is harnessed will never grow old.
One must be one’s own genie when all’s said and done.
That which henpecks the henpecker is self-esteem.

Mueller Time

Subtle acts that move bowels in the way the wolf howls
Is the way that the Mueller mug foams at the head.
He’s the pilsner prolific who has given chase
Down the deep throat of treason and utter disgrace.
He uncovers all monsters who sleep in one bed
While the sleepers themselves can’t but help calling fowls.

He’s been at it a while now. How close has he come
To a watertight case so that justice is served?
Some believe it’s a witch hunt yet others do not.
Seems we have not a government – only a plot
To keep goodwill away from the mass undeserved
And to keep them confused and well under their thumb.

It’s about time for Mueller Time. It may come soon.
All involved seem in panic as they carry on
With their straight faces and pockets full of respect.
Those who drink from the Mueller mug tend to defect
From the will of the White House. With much burden gone
They may live a life normal apart from the goon.

Plight Of The Pink Pickled Pine Pecker

Is this pecker endangered? Then who is at fault?
Neither nature nor scientist should take the blame
For the swift disappearance of this pickled bird.
Perhaps they somehow felt this world is too absurd
Then decided to vanish. We’re left with the name
Of this odd-fellowed creature whom we may exalt.

Every pine pecker present and those who are not
Have an interest in living their lives left alone.
They don’t like being tagged and implanted with junk.
It seems we are their ET’s. This may not be bunk.
They survive our abductions and often they’re shown
A pure side of humanity with a kind plot.

Yes, the Pink Pickled Pine Pecker was on the list
And they knew it. That’s why they decided to split.
They said, “Leave us in peace. We just want to move on
And find somewhere to hide so you think we are gone!”

This makes good sense from their point of view. Doesn’t it?
If we had creatures watching us, we would be pissed!


Just Change The Station If You Don’t Like What’s Playing

There’s no need to complain about what’s in my ears
Or in front of my eyes just because it is there.
It is there IF I tune to it. It can’t assert
Itself in my experience. I can avert
Any unwanted content. I need not beware
Of what broadcasts to me about troubles and fears.

Sometimes I get the notion that I could out wait
What I’m getting in hopes that someday it will change.
If I wait for the station to play different songs
That would be rather silly. My good sense belongs
In a state of mind supple and borderline strange.
I’m a carefree consumer when I’m in that state.

There are radio towers all over the land
And perhaps some in space, but the point is they are
Only stations I’m tuned to. I can tune away.
That my being selective can brighten my day,
I am grateful my focus can never stray far.
I prefer that I take life the way that I’d planned.

The System Reset Button

There’s no System Reset Button on the dashboard.
Not a single car needs one. It has not a soul.
It cannot on its own up and stage an attack.
It cannot get pissed off nor can it give one flack.
It knows nothing and therefore has no self-control.
That which is all around it is simply ignored.

It’s the person inside who most surely needs one.
People quite unlike vehicles tend to act out
On the highways when often they feel they’ve been wronged.
We build justification as rage is prolonged.
Yet we do have some time to turn ourselves about
And bounce off the encounter with malice toward none.

My own System Reset Button is how I feel
And my being aware of it more of the time.
My defensive awareness of all that’s around
Me in traffic as well as what gets me unwound
Is the switch I rely on. I could commit crime
If I didn’t. At least it’s a noble ideal.

The Director’s Room Floor

The Director’s Room Floor has film clippings galore
Of our mad times and troubles created by way
Of our dealing with conflict and living our plots.
It’s the Inner Director who calls all the shots
And who makes sure the actor takes part in the play.
We may make of some scenes an eternal encore.

What we see as we’re filming is all that we see –
All the turmoil and hatred we tend to make real
And all struggles that strengthen us and keep us true
To that which gives us promise for seeing things through.
We as actors are experts. We know how to feel
Our way into wellbeing and living ‘to be.’

What is left after edit is surely worthwhile.
There is much life that ends up in recycle bins.
But most segments are valuable, one must conclude.
We can’t curse The Director. That’s not only rude.
We’d be cursing our own selves then nobody wins.
The well-fashioned performance begins with a smile.

My Inner Bean

My benign inner bean is a vegetable green
In a dark shadow casing that likes to wave “Hi”
On a stage to the people for whom which it knows
Not enough about drama nor how to compose
The best score for a stunning performance. I try
To upstage it so that it can seldom be seen.

That is not a nice habit. My bean deserves light.
That is what it is made of. It takes nothing less
Than to be seen in brilliance when happy or sad.
Yet the inner bean knows naught of good nor of bad.
I have treated mine wrongly, and I must confess
That I have a strong focus, now, on what is right.

I must let my good bean to direct every scene
In this life given to me and through me from me
As my inner bean knows what it is I desire
It damned well can direct me that I may acquire
Some experience acting and learning ‘to be’
In a non-ending playbill upon the grand screen.

A License To Sell Hotdogs?

How to let a man know his pant zipper is down…?
One might tell him discretely by asking him this –
“Sir, do you have a license for selling hotdogs?
If you don’t then, my goodness! Your fit for the hogs!”

If he tells you he does have one should one dismiss
All the spewing and twittering all about town?

What’s the mark of a man these days? It’s hard to tell.
Male birds often get cocky and frequently bitch
Over females and who gets to strut upon stage.
When things don’t go their way they will blurt out in rage.
And perhaps our worst women would be a safe switch
From the men now whose governance makes of life hell.

Someone’s given the duck every right to hotdog
His way brazenly through history with his pants
By now half past his knees because of the big bulge
In his background and of things he’ll never divulge.
Manhood licensing yields but a grim circumstance
And the women forthcoming will clear up much fog.

POTUS With A ‘Shithole’ Mouth

When you think of a POTUS take notice how well
Your ideal of one matches what we have right now.
I was told I could be president if I would
But believe in myself the way go-getters should.
I get dinged for foul language. How do we allow
The Commander in Chief to proclaim he’s from hell?

I was told, “We would like for you not to return,”
When I uttered a venial, everyday word.
They said, “You’re not professional. Go take a hike!”
Sometimes leaders and losers behave quite alike.
And although this man’s word is unfit for a bird
All the assholes around him downplay our concern.

Children who can’t play POTUS should exit the game
While they have some self-worth left to yet carry on
In some other profession, perhaps pumping crap
Through the mouth into minds ripe for utter mishap.
I can be the professional though quite the pawn
In this cesspool of freedom where all shit the same.

Kicked Right Out Of Dreamland

I was sound asleep though I was covered in sweat
As my body turned clockwise while wrapped in its sheets
Of bewilderment as my soul went on a trip
To that wonderful dreamland where I can equip
Myself with all its graces and spiritual treats
That my sleeping and dreaming most often beget.

I remained for a good while although there’s no time
In a world of pure thought-form and nowhere to dump
All the tension I’ve mustered throughout the long day.
I found out there’s no dumping. I did disobey
The most cardinal rule there: Do Not leave your clump
In this mental world.
And their directive is prime!

I’ve been kicked in the rear end. So now I’m awake.
I’m afraid to go back there or even to try.
They might block my arrival and give me what-for.
I’m not feeling distressed that I didn’t dream more.
I shall start my day now as I breathe a deep sigh.
I am not banned forever, thus I have my cake.

How Green Is My Grass?

If I dined at a place well acclaimed for its class
With a fine meal before me, would I care to know
What the others are eating? That wouldn’t make sense.
I’m consumed in my own meal. I’d harbor defense
If I looked at another’s plate in envy though
I am satisfied fully. How green is my grass?

If I went to the park for a breath of fresh air
And decided to leave the wheelchair in the car
And get by with my double canes, could I ignore
All the looks of concern? Could I know what’s in store?
There’s a reason that things are the way that they are.
It may seem life is bountiful yet seldom fair.

There’s too much information. Sometimes I’m unclear
As to what makes one’s grass green and keeps it that way.
Greens are made of the mixtures of yellows and blues.
Life in focus is made up of various hues
Of our wants and our needs as we live day to day
And this side of the fence is my chosen frontier.

Whose Skills Are A Mazing?

Just whose skills are a mazing? They wouldn’t be mine.
I’ve a watertight alibi. I was in space
At the time those weird circles appeared in your fields.
So don’t blame them on me. My benign talent yields
Not a blanket of mischief with straight poker face
Nor the purpose to brand the earth with my design.

Someone messed with those images – every damned one!
Either that or the aliens are drinking tea
Made from mushrooms from cow patties beamed to their ships
Then distilled and digested well so that their trips
Are as freaky as no human tripping could be.
Then perhaps they are ready to have some real fun.

It’s a big tick-tack-toe game they play from the sky
Or from people’s computers. Whichever the case,
People’s skills can be alien in many ways.
And somewhere in it all there’s a big need for praise.
When caught spewing their markers all over the place
It would be fascinating to hear from them why.

Get Up, You Little Klutz!

Time to wake up, dear little one. This is for real!
You have entered the world of dimensional space.
There are bad times and worse times and that’s about it.
Stop your whining and crying and throwing a fit.
I will give you your guidance and love just in case
The Almighty is busy with some other deal.

Watch and see how we do this… One step at a time.
It is not very difficult once you know how.
Get your little butt up when you stumble and fall.
You are here to walk upright. You’re not here to crawl.
Shame on you if you falter. I will not allow
You to grip onto furniture. Thou Shall Not Climb!

I am God as your parent. That’s how it must be.
My job is to protect you from all the world’s harm.
We all know you’re distressed now that you have arrived.
You remember what heaven’s like and feel deprived.
Just remember your guidance is your lucky charm
Because gods who are old here can no longer see.

The Emotional Journey

All along the x axis our feelings are placed.
They can move about slightly and overlap some.
They have lives of their own yet we blend them with ours.
Some of them are from Venus and some are from Mars.
Nothing much keeps them going but always they come
At our beaconing when unto them we are faced.

Though they are called a spectrum, they’re just on a dial.
I select each by how fast vibration takes place
Of the life force available right here and now.
The more speed I accomplish, the more I allow.
Does my progress depend upon winning some race?
I think not. I’ll kick back and just cruise for a while.

My journey is emotional… mental as well.
Long before I arrived here, my plan was to be
An observer and student of life and its ways.
What I feel on this path does enthrall me most days.
Every nerve of my being can help me to see
I can head toward true happiness and therein dwell.

The Wellbeing Conspiracy

To the ears of Lord Windsor of Olde London Square
And to those of the Roman pontificate realm,
The good life and wellbeing are given to all.
No one’s made me unworthy as I can recall.
The cosmos is a ship with no one at its helm.
It is guided by all of us. That’s only fair.

I exist in this garden that you think is yours
To do with as you please as the beast claims your back.
That has worked for a long while, but big change will come.
Fate will strip the world’s gardeners of their big green thumb.
Paradigms will be shifting from notions of lack
And of fierce competition and keeping of scores.

A Wellbeing Conspiracy is taking place
As we speak and live daily throughout all our lives.
It exists through eternity and without cause.
It is that from which we fashion all of our laws.
That which waxes receptive is that which survives.
Our Wellbeing transcends knowing in its embrace.

But It’s True!

I just saw it on TV, so I know it’s true.
I keep up with events that occur in the world
And my country and state and what’s in my back yard.
I consume information. For me that’s not hard.
My mind can be gripped because it’s fully knurled
By my own set of preferences and point of view.

I cannot not believe them. They said that it’s so.
So it’s Gospel. Don’t tell me to ignore the facts.
I must think from the box. There is no other source.
And to think from one’s own head is nonsense, of course.
I’m a creature of habit programmed to relax
And let all things around me put on their grand show.

Just because it is true, does such truth affect me?
Things are true as we make them so through our belief.
Yes, some things are quite blatant, explicit and real.
We evaluate by how we think, see and feel.
We create what is real to us. It’s the motif
In a world ever-changing toward what is to be.

The Old Heart * Mind Collusion

We know learning to read becomes reading to learn
At some point along doing the work to be done.
It becomes easy going, like riding a bike.
Training wheels and our language behave just alike.
Seems a circuit is switched on when reading is fun.
For a world of adventure we don’t have to yearn.

Now when thinking to feel becomes feeling to think,
That’s a matter of harvesting thoughts that feel good.
I will think toward good feelings, then savor them well.
When consumed in contentment my mood will compel
The emergence of more thoughts. The sure likelihood
Is that those thoughts will conjure more feelings in sync.

When the heart takes to minding, as mind takes to heart,
Its sole business of feeling its way toward belief
In a loving world order controlled by us all,
We may master the mind and see all things as small.
I extract thought from feeling and feed every leaf
Of my own tree of life through an ever new start.

Emancipation Proclamation

I can do that. But why, if it favors just you?
I am not a crowd pleaser. That’s not why I’m here.
And what you think about me is not mine to know.
I am not your performer. This isn’t your show.
If my job is to please you I’m married to fear
Because if you reject me then I’m feeling blue.

I was given my freedom by that which gives life.
In fact, I am so free I can choose to be bound
By the people around me as I lap their praise
Like a blind sighted thirsty dog lost in the maze
Where the prize at the end is dried bones in the ground.
That’s one world of entrapment and personal strife.

It’s the law that our freedom exists for our good.
There is no getting ‘round such a resident fact.
We are free to choose bondage. Some make it an art.
But we’re free as the Dickens in mind and in heart.
I cannot be the ‘fine one.’ I’d ruin my own act.
If I want to live well, this must be understood.

Pants’ Expanse

There’s a chance that the pants may enhance one’s romance
If well placed in a regimen rigid in pace
In the progress of making the body look fine.
Though expanse in the waistline could be by design
Of the inner self’s yearning that will not give chase
To cosmetic perfection by will or by chance.

I will exercise daily throughout this new year
And get out in the open on good days and bad
Just to breathe the fresh air and to ponder anew
How the cosmos provides me an elegant view
And the knowing that everyone is my comrade.
When my life force is active, my vision is clear.

Only I bear the pants. No one wears them with me
In this life calisthenic and cadent in ways
That propel my discomfort and comfort as well
From long segments inactive and stuck in my shell.
I can live in good health for the rest of my days.
With expansive horizons I pant with the free.

I Practice the Science of Deliberate Creation, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

It’s an art and a science that I practice well.
It’s a science because it is based in hard fact.
It has laws that can be disobeyed by no one.
It’s an art because all can agree that it’s fun.
Because thoughts are so powerful, they do attract
Situations that match them, like casting a spell.

I can glide on a carpet through space in my mind.
It’s where all thoughts available to me reside.
I may chose any thought. That is all up to me.
By the way that I’m thinking is how I will be.
And the way that I feel now is my own best guide
Toward a temperament transformed to one that is kind.

When I give thought to anything, I’m in the mode
Of creation by default. I don’t have to move
Or to do anything to attract things to me.
If my thoughts are deliberate, I will soon see
Their full manifestation. That’s how I improve.
I am thankful that blessings unto me are flowed.

Seven Of Swans

On the seventh day, true love becomes a new year.
It’s a day for releasing the old from the new.
It’s a handsome prime number – a symbol of luck
That could be good or bad. Often times I get stuck
In some dank shallow waters without a canoe
When my outlook toward newness is darkened by fear.

I behold the new year with a lump in my throat
As I ponder the fate of the cards as a clue
To the physics of particles that are unseen
And the hugeness of space that exists in between.
I can take on the new year and look forward to
All the blessings before me that keep me afloat.

It’s the Seven of Swans – a week since Christmas Day.
It’s as cold as most witch parts. That’s par for this time
Of the year when the briskness of newness is hope
That with deep frozen hearts we are better to cope
For the most part as part of a fresh paradigm.
There is plenty of love I can put on display.