biggest believer

Listen, I'm
a big believer in whatever has to happen
to get us there. Just

tell me what it is, and I'll care
monstrously

Just point me
in the general direction and set me
specifically loose, oh

but I know you wouldn't intrude.

Even if I would want you to. You see,
I should already know what to do

without you

woodcut

We took me for a block of wood, and sanded me
down plain and flat,

And chose our ice-pick
tricky tools of varied size and point
and scoop,
to cut and gouge the negative
away,
revealing what the roller inks,
and what is left thereof to lack.
And when this deep design is done,

I will be just what's left
at surface depth, to make

a mirror print

on paper of what everybody thinks:
a hit-and-run;

and that
will be the start
of that.

We'll roll with ink and press to page
and pull away and call it

number one.

bells kaput

bells kaput
and ring and knell with
silences that swell
and fly to fill the air

you know so well,
what else that air could
hold

and why

so let these bells
unring themselves
malfunctionally
in silences

each time you strike,
with hammer hard,
they clear the air

for miles around
of any sound,

and you know why
you stay on guard
against alarm.

Unclang, unrung,
your heart in throat
at every strike,

you save from harm
all those whose wrong
cries out to skies.

And stand in light,
unjustified. And so
do they, for bells untold

like hearts unwrung,

have never lied.

moral clarity: its questionable use

It's an interesting question,
and therein
lies a story of sorts. So one day

I thought

"what if my sense of moral clarity
may not be useful to others?" I had

reason to think so,
arguably.
At this point
I've decided to play it safe,
for some abstract sake. Who knows?
Down the line I may monetize and/or weaponize
the thing,

if the right vehicle comes along.

I've already got my thumb out,
to be honest, spit-slick and
testing the breeze but I hide it quick
while most vehicles are still pretty
far down the road. Pretty picky
about vehicles, but

you would be too if you
were eyeing them with half a mind
to exploit them for possible deployment and monetization
of a potentially-weaponized
moral sense.

Or: Would you?

The answer

may mean something,

But the point may be moot.
Because the farther I go with it, it turns
out it's like a too-edged sword - a little
too-edgy to cut straight if you're not careful,
and its maybe-moot point renders stabbing

a doubtful question!

It's heavy, too.

Handling
its unwieldy heft
and various questionably-sharp
aspects
requires not
so much skill
as panache. And

without either,

I've found it
can be as dangerous to the onlooker
as to the fool
who toys with it incessantly! So
unwieldy a weapon ought to be

unwielded, arguably. The responsibility
tends to weigh heavily over one's head -
and it's not the sort of sword-thing you want

dangling metaphorically over your head,
especially
in an argument. It's too near
to hand.

In short,
sometimes you have to have the sense to know
the sense you have is no kind of sense
for someone else to be messing with,
not if they have any sense.

All of us
could say the same thing, of course,
but unless
I miss my guess
it wouldn't be in unison.

I hope that answers your question.
I didn't really understand it,
in terms of the options offered, so

I thought I'd answer it "my way." I failed

on a couple levels, but not all of them.
A bit like falling sideways downstairs

end ending up midair

talk tonight

We could talk tonight if you wanted to
I'm just in a place where I can't decide
what I have to say and what isn't mine

but it doesn't mean that I want to hide

We could talk tonight about anything
We don't have to talk, but there's nothing that I
don't trust myself to say to you,

or answer whatever you ask, no lie

Have you ever had nothing to say?
When all that you want
is to find the words
that there aren't?
When nothing that's real
could be this hard
to put into words.
You might as well stop

We can talk tonight, but we don't have to.
Because I don't have a thing that I know
how to say right, now. But maybe I will

if you wanted to, I believe I could.

I just don't know what to say to you

But that doesn't mean I'm not dying to,
No that doesn't mean I'm not dying to.

Have you ever had nothing to say?
When all that you want
is to find the words
that there aren't?
When nothing that's real
could be this hard
to put into words.

You might as well start

telling fairytales
and nursery rhymes
off the top of your head,
for the one you love.
Well maybe nonsense can make parables run
from someplace in your heart
that your head hasn't gone,
and fill it all up
with just enough, to go on?

Of course you don't have to go on.
Of course you don't have the words
to make it make sense, when
it doesn't make sense.

Maybe you just need to tell someone,
even though you've got nothing to say
- they have heard it before?

tell them anyway.

The truth hasn't worn out its welcome yet,
has it? The truth doesn't overstay

The truth doesn't need to be new,
if it's still the truth. So they've
heard it before. So have you.

Tell them one time more what it means to you,
and don't worry about how words make sense.

Trust yourself to say everything true
We can talk tonight, in confidence - even though
I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince

Me or you?

Have you ever had nothing to say?
When all that you want
is to find the words
that there aren't?
When nothing that's real
could be this hard
to put into words.

You might as well start

figures

The author is playing a game with us
that he really is not very good at, yet.
It's clear that he must be intelligent

in some other language, I bet? But still,

the tricks and defects
he pulls
in irregular ways, as if
on purpose (and maybe
he does?), that he uses
for striking arrays
of effects and conclusions

and questions

do make
for quite an interesting

mistake. At least,

I hope it was.

NOTICE.

As revenues continue, fall -
or actually, were never there
at all - but expectations rise

for what I get
for all these eyes
for what I've done, such
hard and dedicated work
for nothing,

is no longer acceptable.
I
make a plea to you, donate? and say
I might be
putting up a paywall.
Putting up a paywall.
Putting up a paywall,
I know you don't want to see
paywalls going up all over
everywhere that once was free?
The thing to do is pay me,
voluntarily. That
could halt
this paywall trend in its tracks,
right here. At least if you
and others like you enough
to kick in. Like and share
Please. Be fair

Competition demands to be paid
It's not about hard work for nothing
just to be noticed and then
no jackpot. Thousands and hundreds
of thousands and millions, the entire
audience of content producers
thronging and clamoring and

networking hoping to be noticed,

recognized, and thanked
liked, viewed
(where it counts)
shared: promoted, supported! For free
by unpaid fans just because they
validate you
for what you're doing!
This proves

you are real.

The next step is to be paid.
Unacceptable, to have the whole world
coming round to see you work hard
for nothing, just to be noticed!

What they notice is you being exploited
by yourself for no benefit! You've become
notorious for it, and

It sends the wrong message,
not just about you but about
everyone else, doing the exact
same thing. A new model
would be exciting - which
is what we need, so
just be aware I might be
putting up a paywall,

if people keep coming around
expecting to notice
me doing hard work for nothing.
That's the last thing I want
them to notice.

And I won't be the only one!
Not all of us, but the best,
arguably, of us - the ones who refuse
the continuing model of scrambling
and thronging desperately to be noticed
at any cost, with no jackpot once we finally are
- which begs the outrageous question be asked
"Why were we doing it?" Don't be surprised,
to see the best of us,

who always gave you such great good for free,
go away.
Put up a paywall, and hide behind it. We swear
you will miss out
so much.
We'll be working twice as hard back there,
to be noticed behind that wall, and

you'll never know.
You don't want that

differences on average

I believe
there's a case to be made
not too unreasonable, that differences between people

are caused by animals.
For instance, a certain type of lizard.
I have observed women on average
while men obsessed with status, and I noticed
it became heated. Standing up to each other, but

there was a lizard nearby, the whole time
right by the wall. The lizard stopped suddenly
and skittered off. Coincidence? The argument
stopped as well! The exact same time

I started freaking out, trying to explain
about the lizard. What lizard? they wanted to know
It was gone, but

They didn't believe about the lizard,
and as soon as it was gone their
differences vanished

Making fun of my theories. But I believe

it's very important about the lizard

And possibly certain other animals.

wish response

If only wishing made it so!

- as yours just did. So far as go has gone
as yet. Today, I mean. For me.
Although,

The world would be
an awful mess
from all the thoughtless wishes,
consequences unforeseen -

So maybe it should just be yours.

I'd trust to that, and gladly offer
any help you wish, to shape and hold
a course, and to explore

- as everybody would,
I guess.
With all your wishes
coming true. But I'd be eagerer than most,

to have, or live, or be your wish,
and call it blessed,
and find it bliss,
and feed your wishes, hopes
and dreams, and grow them

into everythings. As I will try

to do, today: according to
your wish for me. Which was
so sweet. Which always is.

All fantasy aside, sometimes
- telling wishes really can
bring them to life,
and make them so,

as self-fulfilling prophets know.

Perhaps I could be one of these?
I'd cover you with prophecies

and leave you option to fulfill,
accordance subject to your will.

tips #2: the phone

I put people
at their fucking ease. That's
what I do. If somebody calls me,
I answer "HEY!
Are you at your ease? Well
GET THERE!"
you know? I expect people

to be at their fucking ease. I always am. Fuck them.

They can go stick their ease up their ears
or something. Calling me

all anxious and jittery and thing. Is that how to call me
up? Is that

going to help me put people at their ease? MEET ME
HALF THE WAY,
PEOPLE! I mean they can

if they want but it might cause a SHOCK
how sudden I put them at their
ease. It's up

to them how they want it.

Anyone
who's ever spoken to me
on the phone especially
will attest
to the truth of how well
this method works.

They'll be like, "fuck. Yeah.
It's the best, I didn't even
realize

that's what he was doing
at first, but it works.

I was at my ease."

Damn right. That's well-observed. My trick? First

I put myself
at other people's ease.

They don't fucking know
how to deal with that! It's like

a sneak attack without warning:

easy, if a bit

underhanded. But I say, fuck
they should have been at their ease!

They left it unattended, I just
slipped in there. Meanwhile, where is

my ease? Nobody knows! And you

sit here at your ease with me, dissecting

pleasantries! Nobody cares,
nobody gives a shit about my ease.

Not even me.

Meanwhile, my own ease

mysteriously wanders the forest, seeking

combat. Lost on the way to an ambush,

perhaps. One day, I will meet my ease

on the path, and I'll be like, "Hey!

I love katanas!" And that

will be

The End.

of that

work gloves

My work gloves
are in a poem!

They make my hands invulnerable.
I think they're made
of leather.

Still a bright and cheery yellow
after all these years. I've left
them in the sun for months, so
kind of faded on the thumbs,

but otherwise, quite cheery bright.

Their name is Wells Lamont. I just
discovered that. A cowboy name,

don'tcha think? There is a black
and strappy thing along the wrist

to cinch and tighten it, and which
I've never used. They're pretty tight
- I have to slide and jam my hands
in pretty good, and whack between
fourchettes (the panels in-between
that make the finger-sides - the front
and back panel is the "trank"!), alternating
with stiff tugs on cuffs, until
the whole thing's snug,

then I make fists and punch
opposing palms, with satisfying
catcher's slap, and clutch and reclutch,
grip, run knuckles under fingers, wave and
wriggle them as independent as they can

all muffled in their stiff and glovey brace

and interlacing, slide and lock,
withdrawal and smack, push in
and pushing back,
until my leather second skin

is broken in enough. And finally,
they're worn. I'm wearing them. They are

a little tight! My hands feel like
two wooden blocks. I might could break

a board! I love these things. I use them
every time I'm ripping weeds and brambles

out by roots, or rooting in the dirt,
or tossing blocks and logs, whenever I
have cause to want my hands to feel

invulnerable. Which so far has been
twice. These gloves

deserve a better owner. You'll
concede they have it easy, though.

A cushy gig,

to lie in sun,
atop a pile of aging wood,
and getting faded on the thumbs.

Filling up with spiders, maybe. Wouldn't be
a bit surprised. What if I never

put them on again? These gloves
have earned some kind of prize. World's laziest

work gloves. They do not look
ashamed at all. Just lying cheery
in the sun, all ready

and responsible.

The wonderful beyond words

The wonderful beyond words
is what and where I'm always
trying to get.

With words!
Which may seem

dumb, or self-defeating, but I find

one often can - by dint of reach
and grasp - pull such strange wonderful

from nothingness
and into form,
by processes mysterious,

with nothing lost by trying it.
With no diminishment
of all the wonderful that lies
beyond - for us to catch and steal

our handsfuls of, and gorge
our gorgeous selves
upon.

taking danger

I fear I may have taken you
into danger, with me

needlessly, and now
we're here, where we are, how
we feel - with no way out. Except

perhaps, some action-movie set-piece
jammed with special effects and explosions,

which - that would be okay! No one
ever gets hurt in those. Not
really, though.

So,

make my day?

Be the same

Be the change
you want to see. But also,
see the ways you want
to keep, and stay the same
you always meant and wanted, and

wished you'd be. And if

you never were - then change.
And say the same

you mean to do. Don't be
the change that loses

you

hey, jealousy

For the first time, I know what jealousy means.
You are the one I thank for that. You made me
look it up in the dictionary. And now, I am
jealous.

I lost the bet.

There are two separate senses of jealousy
that are relevant to love relationships

(and a third that applies to losers
of bets, or others regarding
accomplishment, and feeling
that stinky sting! To be
jealous of it)

The secondmost sense
is the troublesome
one. Where jealousy is distrust
of the other's
faithfulness. Which sucks,
and which

is entirely bad.

It grows out of and is a distortion
of what, to me, is the primary
one:

A sense of a right awarded to one,
an exclusive right, and deserved in full
only because it is given in full,
and accepted in full. To be conscious and vigilant
of such gift, and even possessive - to take ownership
of one's rights and one's duties in it,
to feel solicitous, eager to honor
and to discharge them,

fully and well,

to feel a guardianship

and protectiveness,

is to be jealous.

A feeling quite sweet
and innocent! I'm surprised
to admit, and feel myself.

The trouble, I think, is where people forget
that wherever such rights

are awarded by someone else,
in a freely-given gift of one's own, owned self
(which is yours to give! If it isn't, you'd better
correctly guess that you don't own it, if it isn't yours
to give. Whose is it?), such rights
remain at their pleasure, and are

in their continued gift.

It ill behooves the recipient
to sue for a breach of trust, in this.

It better behooves one to gratitude
every day, for a gift given every
day to you.

To accuse mistrust is to presume
to rights that nobody has, and jealously
force and insist on them, like a
fucking clown.

I'm jealous of love you give to me.
My jealousy never could bring me down,
or lay you low, or lower you
in my sight, or make me doubt
or damage or break my trust,
which you placed in me.

I jealousy love and keep

the way that you make me feel,
and I jealousy guard myself
in my acts and ways, to ever more fully

and truly possess

what you freely and fully and truly want me
to have, and cherish, and keep:
your regard for me.
Your love,
for me.
Your self,
for me to have,
and love as my own,
I jealously love
doing honor to all of this gift

of you,

which is yours to give,
which you give every day
as if every day were one,

and as if I'm the one you choose
to live in it with.

So you do. I'm jealous with it!

- madly with joy, I live in your gift,
jealousy guarding such rare privilege,

and wondering how I ever deserved?
And gladly I set myself to the task:
to earn your gift, to try every day
in the full exercise of my duties
and rights, and responsible

only to you, for the use I have made
of all that you've given me to. As I please,
that is how you have given to me.

And ready to give my account in full,
so ready to answer for anything you

find questionable, or troublesome, I

am jealously, gratefully, humbly
proud

of being the one who gets to stand
and give full account. Who gets to strive
finding everyway how to live up to this:

your free, unassuming and perfect gift.

You bet! I am very jealous of it.

A jealousy sweet and innocent,
like you've given me stake
in the infinite,

and all that I want
is to prove your right -
which you've given me
- and to prove you're right,

in winning it.

Science has magic in

Science has magic in it! It's the love
of the actual world you can actually
prove to yourself AND others by theories
and laws, and after that

See?

You have proofs. The evidence keeps

leaping out of the angles and
off the surfaces of the universe
in predicted trajectories and coming

in droves, sweeping you away

towards

the falls,

where peer review and experiments
cast thronging doubt on your evidence and fail
to
affirm
your results or support

your conclusions,
in air -

No, there

is
no magic
in science.

That

is a delusion,

I do confess, I swear
I do believe it, equally
serenely regardless and irregardless,
despite or because of paradox implied or explicit,
inferred or imputed. Now,

for my next trick

- are you watching closely?

Let's go refute it!

We can, you know.

There's no limit
to where science takes us, except
the limits reality actually has -

which we will descry
and define, defy and illumine as we go

- and they

will not limit us, to powerfully grasp

all there is to know,

which is all we will ask.

one's character

I want to say horrible things, sometimes
- but never to you, if you don't mind.
I need you to love who you think I am
your favorite person on Earth,
sometimes,

And other times mine! Deservedly so.
Honestly, that guy can be so damn sweet!
We can laugh as I tell you the horrible things
I wanted to say to others who cross my path,
and I know that you'd well believe
that I let them pass.

Why wouldn't I, though?
I'm proud to be what you think of me,
every chance I get,

As I'm sure you know.

Novelistic

I've written a romance book, and you
are the antagonist. Don't worry! I like
when the bad guy wins, or in your case,
girl. The protagonist is

this amazing and mythic Mary Sue
type - you'll never believe he lives up
to the narrative hype, but so help me,

he might! Only thus

to fall
for a cunning and devious twist,

at the end of it all.

the bespoke suit

I have put off today
for so many years, tomorrow
holds decades of overflow
of things that I know
I could easily do,
and still could easily hold
much more.
At some point
I might have to let it go,

like all of the clothes you've kept
too long, against the occasions
they once were perfect for,

and concentrate on what I actually
want to do, and get done. Eventually,
though, I might have to admit -

I'm reasonably sure there isn't enough
of that,
to fit the shape of the life
that hangs ahead. Perhaps

I'll gain weight, or smoke
some more,
or drink myself in

to oblivion.
I'd probably fit then,

but I can't be sure.

I hope I look good
by the time people care
I'm dead, or maybe

a little before.

chasing the tail

Sometimes I feel like the tail end of a thought
got lost, and the rest of it worked itself out,
completely resolved and gone for good, before

I could notice or figure out what it was. But

something to do with you, I think. It usually is,

these days. Too bad I can't call you up

and ask you for hints. I far too much love
your mysterious ways.

The friend who used to be so close

The friend who used to be so close
can't take a hint. You used to talk
for hours, always loving it

But you're in different orbits, now.
Ok, you used to be, as well - but that
was easy to defeat by reaching out,

and so you did! The both of you,
so grateful for this voice and view
from nowhere, such a sudden fit.

You needed it. And it went on
and on - a rock. Dependable. A feature
of your life, somehow. You wondered how
you'd done without, and didn't want
to think about it all.

It just made life seem possible
in all these ways it
never was,

just running through
each other's lives and bouncing
back effect and cause. Saying things
too true,
so great to catch between
and dote for days, congratulate
yourselves upon.
Then let pass by awhile -
as if too cool, but throw it out again
some months gone by and still amaze,
the reference caught and tossed
anew, a play with ever-changing rules,
a game with never-changing roles - a secret

club

whose secrets everyone should know,
They're really missing out. So obvious

but just for us, somehow.

nothing ever

changed,
nothing
happened

to explain the loss
At some point someone felt a twinge
of bad, not reaching out enough

At some point someone felt not in the mood
to bound and pounce through wondertown,
and making life seem possible in all these ways
it never was.

At some point friendship turns into a thing
for feeling bad about. Bad for luring in
another one, for feeling stupidly impressed
how good you make each other feel you couldn't
do without, or ever tire of this.

You didn't. It just stopped being
what it is.

It was your
escape. For both
of you. But life has ways
of sucking life from our escapes

We realize that we're still trapped inside
a life made bearable by all the ways
that someone makes the possible
seem real, in perfect sudden fits

that never really change how we
fit into it. Because we don't.

That's just the deal. But

it used to be so nice to make
each other think we did.

It wasn't always a mistake. But now

The friend who used to be so close

still reaches out
a time or two, by months
and years, as if
to try to start the play again,
where it left off. As if the game
were not called off, just waiting for
another turn.

You both
know very well

that nothing happened,
nothing changed.

But it's as if they think
that that's ok.

In lives with really, nothing more or less
to bounce around between

two strangers growing strange.

accomplishment

Accomplishments should be enjoyed
immediately, never postponed
til the day
they never get done at all.
Then all they will be good for
is to piss and moan, while laying about
undone,

enjoying the stall,

letting slip choice praise of
your great "potential," and such.

They will do this with great accomplishment.
It's something,

I guess, but it isn't much.

my friend the ant.

I never much mind an ant,
when I find one wandered in,
and wandering across my path,
or possibly its. "Hey dude!"
"How ya doin'!?" I'm happy to pass

the time of day. But suddenly, if
a whole troop of friends of its
starts trooping in, I withdraw

in disgust. In feeling how far
beneath me all of them are,

and wishing my friend, the ant
hadn't invited them in.

Then to feel the kinship and interest
we share, with parts of my house,

especially the sweetest parts - disgusts
me all the more. And also

the trash, which frankly they're welcome
to - I don't need it anymore, except

for the can. But I don't want to keep it
outside for them! I want it in here!

And them out there. They belong
out in the environment.

I realize now, I really just wanted
a token friend. One special ant,
to represent how kind
I am. "The Ant's Friend!"

I happily thought, as me and one ant
passed time of day. It was all
well and good. Now horribly, I can see

how these ants must be understood.

hug to crush

I don't need a hug at all.

In fact, my bones
would break
and my heart give way,
torn by the shards
in the splintered embrace
of my inwardly-gathering cage
of ribs, and pulped by the crush
of my breath-held lungs,
until finally, the hug is released -

and I breathe

in as deep as pain gets,
and everything pops
right back into place til' the next.

When I see it coming I'm like
"what the hey," I'm like

"no hug!" I'm like
No means "NO"
not "HUG"

but I don't have the chance to say
what I'm like.

Oh ok, I guess
I will have a hug.
When push comes to shove,
as it very well might.
Go head now, I'm strong

enough,

at least,

for now,

I'm trying to pick my fights.

And you
are one of the ones

that I will allow.

Regret, when it comes too late

I was hoping to never feel
like I have to take this back,
or make this right, and anyway now

too much has passed
of time, and life
to be fixing this.
I am sure by now,

you can not care less, anymore
what I wish I hadn't done,

or what I now wish I did
Next,

Afterwards,
the very next day,
or if that was too soon,
(it probably was) then
within the week, or
two - before time hardened hurt
had certainly set, and I
had hardened into
what you thought of me now.

Replacing who you had always known
I was. Goofy and sweet, and maybe

a little bit off.

You certainly made me mad enough
to want to kill that guy, for you. And for you,

I did.

You didn't deserve that guy
anymore. And for you now, I know
that you think you never did. Or
more accurately: that guy

never existed at all, for you
now. Because

you saw the real me, and now

you know.
I guess we both do,
somehow. By different roads.

You all at once,
and me more and more.

Each year that goes by, that guy
who you used to know I was

looks back at me,

across all that growing
distance of time, with a look
on his face

I can no longer see.

balance

I have half
the necessary time required, and double the
don't gives a shit.

And I am fired
with purposes undefined, and charged
with things understood as crimes -

on balance,
I might be doing just fine. But might

doesn't make it right
this time,

and it never did.

Things that are happening now.

Things that are happening now

could change

everything we could ever
do later, from here.

The very landscape

is stretched on ulterior frames, the canvas
of modern life

is artfully being painted upon. They're painting
it over, while we look on

too distracted by motion of grasses and winds
and waves to see

the painting they've made
of reality.

I guess it's too late
to save the picture they've made
from them. It's sad

the day has turned beautiful,
all by itself - and there they stand,

furiously stretched over easel, stiffly
daubing and sketching and splashing paint,
using single-point brush techniques
so fine, and scraping off swathes
with a palette knife, to show
for all the world how it really is.

These people are saints, but without
the patience for it. Let them stand back,

and fix their perspectives upon a square.

And while we stand up, and forward a bit -
the better to see all that's really there,
as wild and wide as things really are,

and not truly given to tendency - let's try
not to spoil the view for them. They aren't

really painting for you or me.

The day has turned beautiful, all
by itself. For all who have eyes,
and ears, and tongues,

let us see hear and taste, and share with
someone. Let's slip

fingers into this grasp,

and run.

perils of encouragement

"I really enjoyed it," you said

I felt instantly good.
Too good? And I thought

You really should be a bit wary,
the way you're encouraging me.
Too much could be way too easy
a thing to do, for you.

Even though I know you're just saying
what crossed your mind and heart,
like I always do.

So don't stop that.

I enjoy really, too -
enjoy your really enjoyment
of what I don't really try to do.

At least not too much. In fact,
I tend to go off without a thought
on whatever I find in my heart,

like you always do.
Or at least, you do something else
to as good effect.

What if encouragement changes
the tone of it? With me
trying more and more

consciously to please you?
Would you be more pleased?

Would you spot the difference?
Would I notice myself? What
should we do then? And
what would we do next? Let's proceed
as we always have, but don't hesitate
to call me out if you have any doubt.

You see,
I want: to make it my mission in life.
To enjoy
you enjoying me
all the more, and more
consciously, but without ruining

whatever it is that you enjoy,
or why you enjoy it so much. All of which
is a mystery, admittedly. This mission would be

added to and subordinate,

not conflicting with, or replacing the last
most recently grasped and declared "My mission
in life." Which was this:

(and is)

never to break your heart.

Jeez. I wonder how many missions in life
I have? Right now I can only think of the two.
Maybe a mission for me is something new?

At any rate, feel free to propose. Play
Commander-In-Chief, with me
as your General Officer - the one who knows,
ostensibly, how to get shit done,
and carry out goals. As long
as the missions you set
don't conflict with the primary
(and, to a lesser extent, secondary)
mission, I'm sure we can figure a way
to do those. We can even dress up
in fancy clothes.

Or infancy clothes. Or
old-people clothes. Whatever those
clothes might be, by the time
we grow old. Let's not
jump the gun. I'm sure
whatever we both have on will be fine
by then, and that yours
will be cooler than mine.

These are pretty low bars, as missions go.
But important to me, as I hope you know.

I'm making it up as I go along,

but it's nice
to have some things that are
hard-held wrong, to go
with the rights we think are ours,

and everything good we pursue instead.
We have held low bars. But we shouldn't be punished
for making it easy on ourselves.
We should be rewarded for making it nice,
for each other, but nothing

is without its sacrifice. And just

be aware of risk.

I'm sure that it's there,
but it may take us both looking sharp
to detect just what it is.

In the meantime, I am encouraging you
to enjoy and encourage me more,

as I always do you.

This is our best chance, I think,
to spot what the risks could
possibly be,

and to greatly dare the risk of them,
as lately you've been encouraging me
more and more

to do. And I think I can.

But I haven't quite thought it through.
Which should probably be no surprise

to us, but I trust in my good intent
and will, if necessary, pave a road

or two.

pages to save

Wish I knew now what you meant to me
then. I can't even think what I felt,
that I want to bring back again.

I wish I'd kept a diary, maybe reading it
would be like a friend. Like you were a friend.

I wish I had pages with writing on them,
so I could have something to turn. Some way
to know when I reach the end.

Something to learn or understand.
And something to burn.
Something to burn.

And I would reach out my hand, to save
all the pages with you on them, in hopes
that rereading convinces me, and I
would believe something worth
the loss could be good to keep, and then

I could read it and weep.

the poet's lonely-ass battle

This is another of those arrogant, ass-hole poems
about some dick who sits there noticing shit
in arresting detail or obviously trying to,
like he or she or in my case I think I'm
better than you, just because I make a habit
of writing it down and presenting it,
to you, as if for your benefit
in some finished form that makes much
of the skills I learned in finishing school.
And practically daring you to react in some

way - which way is unspecified, but implicitly

personal.

As if we need help to react in some
bullshit way to some bullshit that (no thanks

to the poet's deft

elicitation

of the universal) is something we clearly can see
and feel we have clearly all seen and felt! Why?

Just 'cause some self-important and pompous prick
was pompous and self-important enough to think
we needed his help, or hers, or in my case, mine
- writing it down for us, so we clearly can tell
that it's something intense, intended for us
to feel about?

That's redundant, pal. The rest of us LIVE
all these seeings and feelings, we hardly need you
to be noticing them! And writing them down,
and presenting to us, "Did you notice this?
Arresting, is it not? How the universal seems
to creep into all of us?" If you please,

No, sir (or ma'am, or in my case, "you" will do)
it is not! Your noticing, putting thought-out
forms to what passes for unnoticed everyday life
only makes us notice you're an asshole. And so
are we, every time we get sucked in by such bull! Thanks

for cluing us in, yet again, to another universal
truth. In this special case, maybe we couldn't

have figured it out without you.

Setting aside time.

This garden is a screened-in floor of brick,
level with the ground outside and surrounding it,
just an inch or two raised, at most - and some inches below,
when the grass grows tall.

I like to sit
here, and read when I can,
with my ashtray and cup, and sometimes
a plate. There are lizards that skitter and jump
in bursts, in-between being still
and invisible

between and among the potted plants.

My chair is positioned to catch the sun
as it rests in its race, while we go round.

There's a bird, who has leapt to the very best
branch of a prominent tree, to loudly announce
its name - the same name as its feathered friends!
Birds of a feather all tend to call each other
alike. In this dude's case - head white with a stripe,
wings patterned in almost blue - it is two
shrill, raucous bleats, which come echoing
back. Does he know that it isn't an answering
friend? He calls to himself, not feeling
the lack, and without any end.

And these past few days, an alarming snake
that was sunning itself invisibly - until
I would make some small, thoughtless move
- would flash into disappearing speed
in a single or double lash of color
and blur combined in a smokelike
whip, with a loud and whispery dry
snap-swish, suddenly not there -
the moment you try to have looked
at it.

I rarely get very much reading done,
out here at least. But I like to bring my book
with my cup, and sometimes a plate,
to sit for a spell and set aside time
to look,

just in case I get a chance.

Life is about making openings,
not just about making the most of them.
Sometimes, you should set aside time,

and leave yourself room for things.

changed in the telling

It's interesting how little to say
can mean so much, between two
who have pretty much said it all,
in so many ways, in so many words,
and rarely in few.

What is it that makes someone want to say
what goes without saying? and think
that it bears repeating, even?

Harder to explain,
what makes it so interesting to you
that you want to hear more of this, again?

Like a favorite story: you love and you care,
all the more each time, and all the way through,

even though you know how it's going to end.

A bedtime story begins in dreams, and is told
to bring our way back to them. So tell me again,

before I sleep - my favorite one?

You know it's you

Who I want to keep, and whose voice
I will never get tired of listening to. A lullaby

begins from the safest place, and calling
- we find our way back to there. We never
get tired of the voice we love, calling us back
to embrace again, and falling asleep

forgetting cares. Even if we think
we know how it ends.

held like breath

oh, dismal day
of color gray
or colour grey,
depending from the black and white and silver screen
of skies above,
the earth droops down
and hangs its eyes to downcast grass,
a dying gaze upon the last
of glory's spring: the greenest troops
arrayed in splendour, withering.

But looking up, the light has changed.
The shadows, gathering in strength
as brightened colour pools around,

take on a depth and sanity
that's seldom seen in clearest days,

but often springs from dismal gloom
surrounding us, in days like these.

A trick of contrast slips the keys
between the bars, and turning
wrist, and fumbling and angling,

something slides in, and something
clicks.

And in that moment, held like breath,
we're never sure which way to turn,
but whether we guess right or take what's left,

it seems,
in that held moment - carefully,
like someone's newborn baby, who
they've trusted us to hold
a bit, a lesson in what's
precious, dear and true - we feel

that we'll be free. And fear

not knowing what to do with it.

Just as I'm holding you

crisis of faith

A person like you, so perfect
in many ways and yet, none
that any can see, even you.

It tests one's conception,
reality. I don't think

there's anything I
can do.

A person like me, so right
in so very few ways and yet,
all of them in plain view.

There's something about the discrepancy
that's hard to accept, but I think I do.

You've been helping me.

ThiS WAy cAme

I have to warn you, by way
of both caveat and apology,
so much of my life's past two,
three years (what there even is of it,
anyway - pretty sparse) is just weird,

contextless stridency ranting
and ramping its way along a meandered
and trampled path

of the same one-to-three points

covered one-to-three times

each from gratuitously different angles.
To judge
from what's left
of the road it took,
a splattered mudsmear of
improbably-elongated churned-under
football gridiron where a little more effort

could have made a wide and tidy Roman highway,

you'd be excused for thinking
some leviathanlike behemoth
had juggernauted itself
along its merry merry
way, leaving little
to no evidence of

art,
craft,
science or indeed,

dignity in its passage.

But no! It was just me.

Pity. Considering

the glory that had gone before.

stroppy the duck

The duck, truculent
from having her down
taken and transformed
into luxury comforters, quacked

like a trumpet and tracked
down her fluff to the bedroom
where it lay packed softly between
layers. She struck

and she struck,
truncating the duvet
and tearing and tossing
the stuffing about, 'til
the whole bedroom lay

beneath translucent layer

of gauzy-soft down,

and then waddled out.

Updating the Classics: Ode to a Grecian Um

Beauty is truth, and
truth beauty. That is all we know
in this life, and all we need to know.

But here's a dick pic

True, its long and graceful lines bespeak
a brute, rude purpose -

but is not such Art's very purpose and aim on the
whole?

To offer one's deepest, most personal truth.

Not deepest, perhaps - but still, with a reach
for what greatly exceeds one's grasp -
to try. With that wish and need for depth
being etched in every line,
almost eloquently. To offer one's best.
Hold out, for more than one's hope
could excuse, to stretch
almost painfully, with such forceful perspectives
used, as if to emphasize a deepness of truths,
as yet to be realized. In the very picture of ache,
of yearn: to pierce the very heart,
or soul,
or self,
in sum or, okay
a part of it, not very
polite, but at any rate:

whether quickly or slow, at one's own
best pace and speed to produce
a culminating fullness of taste and touch
and all other sense, in building and dawning crescendo of self
in confidence, completion, and knowledge; conjoined in
another in knowledge of one, the separate whole all suddenly lost
in the universal? And found in a purpose

revealed, as we go
but obvious from the start,
pretty much. All beauty and truth
about much and ado. To penetrate

something

inside us all. Well, ok not all.

But how about you?

figures of the one

Dare yourself to ask the questions:

Have you opinion of a self-made looking for inward beauty?

Are you asking why in front of a mirror people don't find a true nature of becoming?

Is it just because they are fighting the embrace of a world ruled by FIGURES OF THE ONE?

How can it be you are still asking the question about LOGO-ROOTS?

What will it take if the younger people of the world rise up in demanding a NECESSARY SONG OF CHANGE?

The world it can see is waiting for your answers.

units of beautiful

Based on you, and some others I know,

I'm developing an objective metric (a
system of measurement) for beautiful.

It helps if you think of beauty as
an elementary particle, or a particle
emitter, or rather

the stream of particles emitted, which has
both wave-like and particle-like properties. My theory
is that this partly explains why beauty

affects us so strongly. Call
the fundamental particle a "Beauton." Yes,
this is ugly but that will help

it be taken seriously.

A Beauton, like a Quark or a Voop, has things like
charge,
spin, and
"flavor." For example,
the flavor of a Quark can be: up, down, strange, charm, top and bottom
- much like a love-relationship interaction.

For a Beauton, the flavor can be: beauty, lovely, pretty, cute, gorgeous, handsome
and slut.

There are many other kinds, but I focus here
on those emitted by humans, not sunsets
or waterfalls. Particle spin

can be M or F. Do not
assume a binary, here

that does not exist in nature! Nor should you assume
one flavor is more or less beautiful than another. For more
on that aspect, see later. An emitted stream
of Beautons contains billions

of particles:

some spun M,
some spun F,

in every given stream. In addition, the emitted stream
of Beautons (which we shall call a "Beauton stream") is a spectrum
composed of
multiple flavors. Taken together,
the relative proportion of constituent Beauton flavors,
and the spins of each

is what forms the specific and unique impression
of beauty. The eye

trained to recognize
and differentiate between,
will readily discern the type of beauty by the word

that springs to mind. But so canny an observer cannot
fail to note

that often, more than one thing
will spring to mind! When exposed to beauty,

This is natural - and accurate. Do not mistake
the flavors as ranked, or hierarchical
in any way.

The intensity of the Beauton stream is what governs

the magnitude of effect. A pretty girl
may,
in prettiness,
exceed by far the gorgeousness
of a gorgeous one, and both

may be cute as all get out,
or cuter. It's not complex, just a measurement

from an instrument

sufficiently sensitive to detect
the intensities and proportions of each
of the flavors and spins emitted. Admittedly,

some instruments
do respond more strongly
to this or that kind. This is why

it is so important!

That random observers will congregate,
and share findings. They would do this
anyway, but I cannot overstate
its importance. Only thus
can we get a sense
of how one's instrument
calibrates, with respect to others.

We can all agree on respect to others. Foundationally,

it's what drives science. Although,

to be embarrassingly frank, some of these results
so eagerly shared, are in fact unrepeatable.

I will be presenting a paper, slightly stained, at the next
meeting of the Society

for Objective Findings in Matters Traditionally and Erroneously Considered Subjective. I trust

it will be received enthusiastically, and I

Thank you in advance,

for your kind attention, and
discerning eye.

Presticogitator

I put effort into meaning
- and words come out!

It looks effortless to the untrained eye,
unless they ask questions I wasn't prepared

to overthink instantaneously, right there

- before you all! Before you
Assume I'm just making it up,

just so.

But I practice at it.
Of the dark
and dim arts,
I have mastered my share.

Now please, may I borrow your handkerchief?
Mine is quite sopping wet.
Thank you! Now please, if

You
will look here! Pay attention, so close - don't
close
your eyes, blink,
or nod off to sleep,

or you'll miss the trick.

Before very eyes, and into very ears,

Wah-lah! Ta da! I will now appear

to have said something! And indeed,
Presto.

I did.

With a snap of one's fingers,

Who cares? Was that it?

I guess

But I'll probably keep working it up,
in the coming years.

It isn't quite perfect, yet.

To develop an act,
that comes off in the moment,
you have to have spent

Some time, in considering what
it means, and what you have meant
by it. And what you would do
and say, and what you have done
and said, and how

did that work out for you?

Would you change anything?

From rabbit to dove? Next time,

who knows?

A cat? Pulling anything out

you want, from what's in
that fancy black hat of yours,
or hidden just under.

Reach in - pull it free! Let loose
a menagerie, be they wild or trained, for
to educate, or to entertain

all proceeds
will go to charity, proceeding
upon certain known principles.

I'd tell you a few,

but we never disclose. Do we? Here,

give paper and pen. I'm the teller,

let's break the magician's code. Why not?

On the back of deposit slip,
I'll jot down a balance,

and slip you the lot.

It's all that I've got, but

it's yours for free. You've been kind,
and willing to understand. Thank you

for coming! And asking me.

Is that all? You've been great!

Let's have a big hand!

"The girl who turned on men."

Sometimes a girl turns on men,
Without provocation or clear intent
- after everything nice she's done for them!,
and nobody knows what causes it.
The men will be standing there, open-mouthed
with their innocent eyes agog like "wow"
disbelieving in what they just clearly saw.

How

could she just turn on

us all?

Well, guys. It's like this.
Your eyes agog and your mouth agape
and your he and haw and your wolf
crying crocodilian tears too late
in your imitation sheepskin suits,
calling out every cat that appears to be
slinking its way past innocently, or trying to,
or pretending to, as if
they don't know what that will do

- what was wrong, the men ask,
with how it has ever been? They ask,
of the girl who has turned on men.

But she cuts them cold, and turns on
one heel, to leave. But the men

won't let her go.

An ugly scene. As her heart rises
into her throat to scream, they're
surrounding her, every day, one
by one: demanding to know what they

have done. Say hi! they spit.

Say it back to me! I said it to you.

I was friendly, what did I do

to you? You bitch, you cow

I believe they will have

their answer now