Advisory

This presentation has been rated 
for violence, implied violence,
implied nude violence, foul
language, adult situations,
childish language, language
violence, childish violence,
mature perspectives, foul violence, 
nonsexual violence, surprise, 
foul surprise, implied nonsexual
gratuity (foul), violent language,
nonsexual nudity, nonconsensual
language, gratuitous dream sequence,
unrealistic twist ending, plot hole
violence, and graphically-explicit
penetrative language. Parents 
are advised to responsibly 
wait a few years. Examine 
and discuss their attitudes 
towards these issues, and 
enjoy the show. Non-parents 
are advised to take warning 
and use their judgment 
responsibly. If it makes 
any difference, the nudity 
is all quite beautiful, the violence
is largely balletic, and the language 
is not English. Sorry

"free verse blues"

Well, anyone can do it. In the old days
of triolets and villanelles, the readership
knew the rules and could judge them well,
and be impressed. A competent versifier
could win praise without moving anyone,
really. They could all see for themselves
how hard it is. “I couldn’t do that.”

Some people need to be impressed
by art, before they can be moved. If
it looks like something they could do
themselves, there’s uncomfortable
accusation there. Why don’t they?
Why aren’t we all poets, then? 

Free verse has no such outs. No shortcuts
to impress, to catch and wow by meticulous
use. No structure, no set forms. 

No safety net, no trapeze, no tightrope.
Takes one hell of an acrobat to please
and impress just vaulting about freely
on the ground. But some of them can
fly. 

I say there are excellent free verse poems,
as good as any rhymed. Better, maybe.
Lack of structure and forms means you
must invent your own in every poem
To captivate, transport or move
the reader
with only your chosen words
alone.

people respond to babies

The reason people respond to babies is 

this little being
is hanging out, carried around
in a padded jumper that seems like
it should immobilize their limbs.

Face poking out all smooth cheeks, 
mouth composed, unimpressed 
and eyes - just looking.

A calm peer. This kid's gone past
trying to figure things out. Maybe
in the first few weeks, some protest -
having recently been removed
from a perfectly satisfactory state!
By now, they've discovered there's
satisfaction here more or less. 
Including the purest rage on earth 
- an infant protesting discomfort! 

In this moment though, comfort
is go. No impositions or outrages.
Not cranky or hungry or tired just:
looking. Not even to understand.
Just take it in, maybe squirm, turn
one's head away from some big huge
interloper but otherwise: a sort of
default astonished receptivity.

"Things making sense" is a social construct 
this one has yet to imbibe. A lot of us 

responding to babies, it's not so much 
"oh, I remember that" (we don't) it's 

Yeah. You pretty much got it kid. 
That's about all it is

dangers of shapeshifting

If clouds never changed their shape, just 
the same ones cycling by on whatever
day's breeze, they all would be famous
by now. They all would have names 
and stories. Mythologies. 

some hurry

Other people are not in your hurry.
They're out there enjoying the pace 

of the day. Some quicker, some
slower-paced, but really.

Other people are not in your way. 

You, and they,
and all of us are 
in everyone's way.
  
So please, if you find
that we are ahead, while
you are behind - don't think 

it inconsiderate.

We planned in advance
to give ourselves time. 

littlest

the littlest lizard out there is so bold. 
He's always underfoot bounding out 
from harm's way. I never even notice
his dares, 'til he's won.
Each time he gets bigger, and soon
he'll be old.
I hope he grows wise 
before he grows slow.
Bravery deserves 
another day in the sun. 

temporary clarification.

I am blithe, naive 
in the carefree sense 
of simplicity direct 
to consequence.
I am fulsome & glib 
to the point I'm sincere 
overflowing so easily
for any to hear, and I am 

So mean I mean it all.
But not in the sense of cruel, 
oh no I care more than all 
of you suckers do. No, 
I don't mean you. It's 
the "indefinite you"

suckers" 

Now what

I see you
upside-down a lot
on Instagram, walking
on your hands, lying
on the floor looking up,
somehow looking down
at me. For what? Judging you?
That's impossible anyway. 
You give everyone the same
look, and it's pretty superior
in case you weren't aware.
And I'm here, wondering
now what? Do I approve?
Am I complicit in this?
What if I'm not? Then 
what? Who the hell 
are you anyway? Who 
is this person?

I used to think I knew. 

When the invite came I was like 
"Oh! Yeah, I know who that is.
How great to get back in touch! 
What a modern convenience!" 
But now I'm not so sure. I don't know 
whether you ever really were who
I thought you were. Really. 

I think you might be somebody else

Now what

the business end.

IF ANYONE HAPPENS TO FUCK WITH ME, THEY GET
the business end
the business end 
OF ANYTHING I HAPPEN TO HAVE HANDY, THEY GET
the business end
the business end 

I might put it right where they don't want 
THE BUSINESS END
THE BUSINESS END 

BUT THEY FUCKED WITH ME, SO AS IS MY WONT
the business end 
the business end

Aweman vs. Awman

Aweman leapt up to the lip 
of a big-ass building and pounded 
his chest.
His spectacular powers 
were leashed and contained.
He looked out
on the city and knew 
who's best. And of course, 
not of course, but in fact:

It was him.
He was. His awe-vision swept
the skies 
and streets for a sign
of his nemesis.

Then, he swooped 
straight down on his head 
in the nick of time, 

and missed. 

Exlicit

Exlicitly, she extracted herself 
from all of her licit doings 
and said, "I don't believe we've
decided, agreed on all of the things 
we pretend unsaid. You seem 
to be working assumptions, now
- assiduously, and you'd think 
for the best, and quite licitly."
But then, with her eyes 
she implied something further,
or otherwise better and blest. Or else,  
I'm about to go suddenly wrong!
Enacting such prompts and spurs. 
But if so, I shall (cheerful) consent
to be dead. And begone!
Yes, living no more
than the full, I shall get
up and go. No worse,
one hopes, than the duly
allotted woe. 

conspiracy pitch

Three of the earth's most major corporations 
have been conspiring with all the others, 
with some success, to conceal a secret
so unimaginable that I haven't made it up yet. 
Got it? Is it a grabber? Let's add an ex-ex-cop
dragged back in on a grudge 'cause he's the only one 
we'll be following around to get some idea of 
what's going down, what the dangers are, 
who's behind them, and how this unpredictable 
wild-card will respond. Now I just had a thought:
male or female ex-ex-cop? It matters, because
there's a ton of continuous nudity in the role (all
dictated by the demands of the script) (this isn't
gratuitous) and that angle might seem exploitive,
or disgusting if not both. Perhaps we can skirt
the issue by lighting the sets in deep shadow?

Done. Our ununiformed protagonist now has
mystery galore, but where does he or she keep
the gun? Let's just assume it's a surprise
when they pull it out. Now, complications: plot.
Setting. Themes. We can sort of wing these
as we go. The script 

is no problem,
we already covered the nudity. How 
about financing?

Do you know anyone? The trick 
will be getting funded on the sly and in the can 
before the conspiracy finds out. 

If we send them a fake copy, we 
can pretty much dictate our own price. They
will do anything to keep a bombshell like this 
from getting released. What? Yes, true we might 
want to find out how much it costs to get us both 
killed. Ask 10% less, that's fair. Sound good?

Good. Now we just need financing, and 
it's all square.

joke clock

There was a guy I knew 
with a joke clock on the wall 
that told time old-school. 
By hand, except - and the joke's 
here, if any: the big hand was a penis, 
and so was the other one. He remarked 
on it (it was the first I heard about 
the clock, I didn't know what he 
was talking about), insisting 
they were the same dick 
in different states. I was like 
"What?" then followed his pointing 
digit, confused by his broad grin. 
I saw the clock. It was twenty to 
one. Nice odds, I figured. "I bet 
you're right. It very well could be."
When I came back next time, I
looked to see what time it was 
and said "Hey! Your clock's hands
are made out of dicks!" I thought 
he must have just got it. The time 
before, I misunderstood what he 
was getting at. The pieces fit 
eventually, but I still don't know 
what made him so sure about 
the hands. To be frank, they were 
sort of cartoonish. Not too terribly 
realistic. Maybe somebody thought
it was funnier that way. Anyway 
I was just kidding. There never was 
such a guy. I just made him up 
to explain the clock

miss nil noire

She stood across the room 
in one smooth motion. She never
showed up, she'd just always be there
when you noticed her. Not
before. No one ever saw
her turn to go. She'd just 
moonwalk slowly out of there, 
while everyone crouched as one 
in audacious jazz pose, snapping 
our fingers and leering while 
she took her clothes off 
someplace else. That was
like her. Wherever she went,
went away, went off, she'd always
take her clothes. Modest girl, you grin,
but you'd be you don't know how right.

She was modest as a girl like that
gets, or bets, or goes on shoes, or
knows the blues, or shows. It's why
we were all in love with her face,
or eyes, or nose. Whichever turned
your way. Her mouth held us 
spellbound, hypnotized - peering
into it for any trace of a smile, but 
no! She was yawning, and we felt 
personally implicated in her boredom
but we knew she didn't see it that way. 
She was the most fair woman on earth, 
and any competitors for the title would 
be ruthlessly crushed by her horde of 
stooges and goons, male, female and 
otherwise devoted. Basically, there was

Something she had, that had us all. 

I think it was personal
in different ways for each of us,
except her. To her it was all the same.
She saw us as we were, hers, and she
never knew why. Never took us that 
way. Just gave herself as she was, 
hers. Which hey.
We took it for what it was worth. 
Worlds. When she died, a part 
of us within us all, that some 
call the soul -  oh wait she's back.
Never mind 

That was someone else who died
It always is, with her. This one's 
for keeps, no playing. Maybe that's why 

I'm always out in the rain, in the dark
taking drinks in smoke filled rooms 
turning down cases left and right 
in case she walks in, and my 
business booms. I'm not even 

a detective, so 
whatever she wants, that's 
what I'll have to do I guess.

I'm sure she knows what she wants. 
I also know her too well
to place any bets. 

interview technique.

I think you walk right in there
with a gleaming chip on your shoulder
and a cheerbright chirpful attitude that says
"it's decorative! No challenge implied."
Then sitting at their waveswept hand of invitation,
you smirk beamishly and waggle your eyebrows
in welcome and (from the other side of their desk,
cued by all the 'desk energy' their authoritative
position implies) they start bouncing excitedly
in their seat and asking you questions. "Five foot!"
"Female." "WHITE." 

"Those aren't questions," you glimmer and wink.
"They're observations based on visual perception,
perhaps with some reference to appearances."

Duly yet luxuriously chastened in an uplifted way,
they cut the crap to the chase. They ask brilliant
questions about your spot-on requirements and
qualifications, which you parry and bandy about
directly, on-point by point.  At one particularly
piquant answer, they stand and yell! Then

Sitting with alacrity, eyes clear and all business,
they nod for a solid minute. Finally making eye contact,
as if it was a thorough decision, he or she avers
"You're the one we want, miss! You'll do indubitably."

And you respond?

RSG

You have to practice
reverse self-gaslighting. 
That's where you keep
pulling sly mean tricks 
on yourself to convince you
you're finding your mind.
If it works, you'll be driven
quite sane, for a time. 

a pocketful of hay

Remember that huge coat 
you wore that day, walking out 
in the pumpkin fields? You'd stuffed
one pocket with sweet, damp hay -
amazing how much one pocket 
yields. 'Cause I kept saying "hey,"
most all of my life, and you'd
socked a supply just to whip 
it out! To give me each time. 
But I didn't say "hey."
I stopped saying hey
that day. Never mind. 

Aver is the strangest word

"Aver" is the strangest word
for a positive declaration. It
sounds like evasion. A veer,
a swerve. A miss. I aver,
but I'm never too confident
when I do. It's a risk, and
it takes some nerve.

nightmare invasion

I had a dream it was breaking day 
and the sky was like infinite marigold 
with the faintest suggestion of green 
in the depths,
like an overturned, compassing 
goldfish bowl.
But looming and huge 
in circling drift, impossibly slow 
and impossibly vast, there were craft 
in the sky like rude cigars. Lumpen, 
irregular, not built to last and of varying 
lengths - yet even the shortest, nuggetlike 
lumps had dwarfed the clouds.
Dispelled them like milk
in the foulest tea that had ever stirred
and been stormed about. And the smell

I can't even describe that now. 
I didn't know dreams
could smell at all.
But this one's aroma, no, stench 
lingers yet. Although I woke up
from it days ago 

An "apt hyperbole"

An "apt hyperbole" really 
ought to be a contradiction 
in terms, seeing as hyperbole 
is exaggeration past what's 
possible for rhetorical 
effect. As a device, it's 
clearly hard to surpass.  
Whatever else you do in 
that line is hyperbole also.

So how can so wild a shot be "apt"?

Complicating matters, "apt hyperbole"
ideally ought to be - I mean the phrase
itself - an apt hyperbole. That would be
so neat! But here at least we have some 
definite answers: it isn't. It isn't even
hyperbole, the phrase itself, let alone
apt. Fit to the task. It ruins enjoyment 
of language, how we can't manage 
to name these things in

more clever, self-referential ways.

Why is palindrome not a palindrome?
Double it if you have to!
"Emordnilapalindrome" or
"Palindromemordnilap," which
do you prefer, and how hard
was that? Whatever government's
been doing all these years, clearly
somebody's dropped the ball.

Well, it won't be me.

If you want me, need me
I've been closeted away, sweating
out and fretting up a list of apt
hyperbole. In case 

you were wondering. 

insidious manipulator

Is there any man
or woman not secretly
proud of their masturbation
scenarios? I'm ashamed to say
I couldn't say. It's all anyone
never talks about, but the sense
I get is some of these
are really quite inventive.

What if 

A new norm were invoked?
Just like that, everyone posts 
their top five shining bests 
on their dating and social 
media profiles, are you 
ready? Three, two, go 

Now,
I bet everyone feels much 
better about this someday, 
somehow. 

divide

I 
am a heist. 
He-ist, adherent
of heism. And you, 
with your youist ways 
keep sheing around 
the place, as if you believe 
what I believe and espouse 
of identity is somehow my fault.
Well, that's true and it stinks 
like a fish in salt. 

deepest in

The ache of the eternal.
The shadow of future nostalgia.
Knowing right now
these moments we make,
we'll forever be in them.
There's no getting out of a
memory that every fiber of me
and ember of you is imprinting upon.
We're having our wonderful way
with time, too full in the present
to fool in the moment
forever so long.

Exuse

What if each of us
exudes an almost oily sheen
that inheres to our persons,
places and things 
'til these nouns of ours imbue
with adjectival force -
would that alone refuse
to explain our course?

Alacrity.

Alacrity: promptness 
of response; cheerful
readiness. That's
what it wants. Celerity:
speed of motion or action,
as well - without these?
We balk and dawdle
and dwell in lassitude's 
tightening hand. Stagnation
sets in. We procrastinate. 
Our energy level tops out 
at fuss. We begin to conclude
what's wrong with us. Which
is too really too unjust, just yet.
That's number one jumping the gun
with a bullet! This time is nowhere
nearly too late to nick! Upset 
your predictions and place 
your bet -

- on you! That's your pick. 
If you do? You'll see. I suggest
let's start with alacrity.

the peoplers

Let's you and me people 
this town with love.
We can't get enough of
not getting enough.
They say this town's empty
when we're not around.
In fact, we're still working
on building this town,
but the drawing board's
coming along just fine.
Plans upon plats, drawn
streets and lines, and we'll
soon break ground! But hey,
what's the rush? Let's people
it now. This place could use
us. 

my ugly side

My ugly side is surfacing,
in little ways from everything.
My patience martyred, tenderness
and gift turned tough and stringy.
Lift us up from underneath 
my sighs! I grow and loom 
in warp and weft a tapestry
of ugliness I can't abide
this anymore. Just this is left:
I'll simply have
to end the match. No score.
It was
no game, no play, 
no miss, no catch. All this 
was just a test
of ugliness. 

The mythic society

The mythic society exists 
in an unshared unconsciousness
where everyone lives 
fulfilling a role as if preordained, 

except it's the one
they'd have chosen themselves
by heart and brain. And if they decided
to be something else, their personal 
myth would swell and break chains. 
And everyone would accept 
the new role, as our narratives arc
to a lightning skein. 

dream edit

Dreams need no editors, boys
and girls. Not ultimately. The subconscious
is on the job, and it's a crude mistress or
master of sublimation. When you wake up, 

The seams really show, and you wonder 
how you swallowed it at the time. 

Well, the subconscious put something 
in your think. It's too late. You've been duped, 
but next time keep your wits about you 

and you won't be missing anything.

dream editor

I wonder if I can fix this.
It's too long, I wonder if 
I can go back in and all 
through and eviscerate
the flab. Remove the 
useless guts and leave 
the visceral pull, draw 
and flow untouched! 
Let concision's incision
be undetectable! Scar 
stitched neat and disappears
with a kiss, leaving us trim,
vigorous and succinct. The 
whole thing's half what it 
was! Damn. What I need 

is an editor, to bat her eyes 
and chase belfries of flitting 
ideas back where they came, 
to fester in other ways, perchance. 
Good for something eventually, 
but not this here now. She - now, 
don't tag me with the "women's
work" slur, pal. Many storied 
and legendary editors have 
been men, but for me I feel 
some yin yang model has to be 
operated on.

It's an artistic matter, call it integrity.
An instinct you can't bare in the light
without a wince, but it's real and there.
My male creative urge can't kow tow 
to a dude, to truss it all up cowed
and bowed, towed back to some
unused lot! Him crossing this
and that out, telling me where
to stick it, no. I can't respect a man
who thinks he can tell me that. It's
self-respect really. But a woman?
That's different, she's highly-trained.
I respect her gall, balls and nerve
getting up the gumption to tell me
what's-what, as a matter of impartial
eye and dispassionate interest
in a better whole that benefits
us both.

It'd be

a bit suspicious for a man to pose that way,
when we both know we should be clashing
in an oiled pose-down vying for the prize!
Who told you you were my editorial equal,
buddy? Let's settle it over a beer
and a game of pool! 

And then the piece ends up as-was. 

Waste of time, but a real sharp, smart 
professional type dame, she can waltz
into my shadowed office at any time, 

door's open - and give me a case 
of amendments and redactions. I take it 
evenly, sanguine and deadpan naive.
I'll crack out and offer around 
the harsh, ambersmooth hooch 
I stock, there's a pair of clean
glasses - she can tell me go to hell!
If she likes.

I'll be like, 
With you, toots? Hell, I hear hell's
lovely this time of year. But already 

I'm waking up, with a bad taste 
in my mouth I can't quite perceive
yet, but it's there. The dream 

was too long, but it's too late 
to go back and make it shorter 
now. You just have to see

what there is 
to do about the day.

Collage Poem Partly

Natalie Portman’s performances
brought to the surface some controversy
in relation to themes embedded in
the storyline.

They seem to have
been triumphant and rise
to an endless level of excellence
as time goes by.

She has only shown her bold
and decisive character throughout
the years, in many of her masterpieces
which all started from her debut.

From Léon The Professional to Straw
Wars Episodes I,II,III, to V for Vendetta,
she shaved her head for the sake of her character.
Since then, she remains a tribute to a very strong
actress everywhere, and her fans know
how far they can trust her to go.

Happy Birthday Natalie! Whenever 
your birthday comes, you can
deserve it

Such binds.

We're made arrayed in razor blades 
and dragonscales. So fireproof 
and bullet-proof, foolproof 
as well. We cannot fail

Again. 

They cannot hit us in this
shifting shell, with keen
offensive edge we take
to all the world for all
it gives. We've made
our pledge on each

Mistake.

And we have found 
such enemies, arrayed
as well as we for times
like these, who prove each
time we add a new one to the lists, 

It's justified. It's just so bad. 
It's just what we have got to do 
to just get by. To not be weak.
To never trust wrong ones again,
as we insist we'll never be the fool. 

We squint through narrow slits,
and try to see just who this is,
until we let the guard come down
once more. We find our words for this.
All lies. Then we're reminded why
we don't do that. This one so right,
proved wrong so sore! So wrong
we were to trust and hope.

We've just about lost count, 

but score by every scar in tender parts.
And every armor dent and rent
and cutting shard, and every bent
of razorblade has taught us more.  

Much more than we could ever take, 
if every hit were not the last. 

So wickedly, our hard and sharp array
is made in every pass. By every forward
-looking day, in lessons chasing from behind.
We'll be the worst we had to be. It's worth

the price we paid to seek and find.  

It's better than to go
forth naked, weak, naive
and blind. Eventually,
we'll let down guard once more,
and this time we shall snare 
the one thing we were looking for,
in all these cursed and wandering times 
of care. Or else, we'll add another notch.  

One more bad lesson to remind us
why we hide, and what we get 

By getting snared up in such binds.

hatred of tame.

The hated lawn, ornamental
shrubbery and other plants
so loathsome and pitiable
as to need human tending: how

can you live in such state?

Plant life is glorious, verdant
and fecund, impressively wild
in wastelands and desert places
I love to visit. Not these stunted
things. Disgusting, unless and except
the excuse is food - then, sure! Kept 
as a pet, good for something. Tomato

vines, cucumber vines, glorious
and secret roots and tubers - I can 
dig it, and have. We coax these things, 
cajole them and what we get out of it
is delicious and proud. 

Not these stunted things. Propped
fixed in place, subject to innumerable
mass decapitations and savage prunings,
lopped from top, front and sides
in unpredictably delayed
and procrastinated series  
by a furious maniac - the price

they endure for life.
For their questionable
privilege of domesticity.

It's the most debased and perverted 
affront to humanity and nature I can think of,
we that we should be their slaves, they 
that their mastery of us should include 
such abject mutilation and order 
imposed by caretakers. Me, I only
participate in my periodic maimings
and beheadings as an excuse 

to give full vent
to hatred of anything
so weak and useless
as to sit there 
and take it,

without even the excuse 
of giving something in return. 

Secretly, I pause for breath
glorying in the sweat
of my bodily exertions, 
and wink at the half-decapitated 
hedge, a grudging and tentative
affection in confidence. Some bond.
Perhaps, forged through ordeals. "You guys,"

I confide. "Are stronger than me. 
This doesn't even bother you, does it? 
It's probably refreshing, like a haircut 
all the way to the neck. It doesn't 

even bother you" 

does it

brother big & brother little

Myth and Fable went out walking. 
Little bro to big one said, "hey Myth!
What is the point of all your deedly deeds 
and saidly saids?" Myth chuckled, "You'll 
know when you're grown," ("...there aren't
such things as points," he thought) "There's 
only glory, tragedy, and all things are, 
which should not ought." So Fable thought
and thought and thought. "I bet I know 
enough right now, to put a moral 
to this tale. It's this: 'Things are just such 
as we
would probably not allow.'"

Thus Spake

And I stretched out my hand over the waters,
And a great wind cast its nets out over the waters
like so many boats, and over all the lands as well.
And all the beasts wailing in patterns, and all the birds
of the air, also in patterns, they were blown and driven
about by the wind, looking not for its ceasing
nor for its starting. The heart within each of them
was sore rent, and the cry was as of a lamentation.
It was windy as fuck out there, man. Each took up
unto each the burden of its body, and each spoke
according to its kind, in one uplifted voice,
and said: Lo, quack, moo tweet, arf and so on,
and the words they all said were one word: QUIT IT. 

So I knocked it off. 

Motivation

A man - a real man, mind you,
not one of these Hollywood mannequins
with the skin of his soul scraped raw 
from the inside, trying to find 
his motivation - generally 
doesn't ever try to find 
his motivation. Purpose, 
maybe. That can be a pisser 
for some. Whereas your 
Hollywood actor type 
knows his purpose! They 
hired him to play that part. 
It's all laid out for him, and if
the director's even a tad honest 
when asked, the reply would be
"Motivation? Fame money and 
sex! Not necessarily in that 
order, either. Spin it how 
you like - you've got to add
some individuality to it.
Believable." Yeah, that's 
why they hire you, pretty 
boy. 

Your morning light

Your morning light shines out 
so strong. It could break
every one of my days,
and we could fix them 
together, however we like.
It would take us some time 
to find all the ways. 

Bliss study.

It isn’t ignorance that’s bliss.
It’s innocence that is. 

Don’t let’s mistake.
Each of these can know full well
the glory best and vile worst
of all at stake.

But ignorance denies, won’t tell.
Willfully insists what’s not. Persists
in courses far off course, avoids,
ignoring every shot at flaw and crack
and telling fault it knows is true,
and lies in wait. Pretending none
of this is real, ignorance bulls through
the gate.

Innocence, though, takes it in. By naive,
nuanced swallowing, accepting truth
without a blot, and choosing not to wallow in
denial, but metabolize the good and bad,
becoming wise. Knowing fully what things are,
it simply aims to otherwise than worst. Around
and through bad knowns, it innocently steers
itself in aim and hone to home and dry. All worsts
known, all worsts gone by.

Of course, either may not know much. Sometimes
one’s lack of knowledge swells, and one is forced
to realize: one simply doesn’t know at all. We cannot tell
when these things hit, you know. It’s ignorance and innocence.

It’s where we take it from that point. There is the fork.
We either go and swallow it, and own and grow
in all that is? Our purity shall not be lost. Or we deny
and wallow in a willful ignorance, to our great cost.

Ignorance ain't bliss.

It’s innocence that is.

The difference is entirely
in how each one responds to what
is certainly bad truth.

The innocent position is: bad truth
is good to know. Because it is. 

The ignorant position is: I know I'm right
in how things are. Therefore, this proof
of how I know things aren’t
is wrong, mistaken. I can overcome it
by sheer strength of will, and 

escape harm.

Nice luck with that, hotshot. Bliss
is not the road you're on. 

symbiosis niche

I bring in spiders from outside.
Unasked, untold they hitch a ride. 
They know, I think they are our friends.
Inside, by you - they meet their end.

At least they did one good thing.

At least they did one good thing. 
It's proved in the depth and the breadth 
of this instrument they used to plumb 
and pry apart all the relevant lies 
and tries and fails in every human 
heart that knows

what this song's about. 

The rest of their career, hey
I make no claim 
but if anyone can look on this 
and be sure and secure,
and so unmoved, 

that is to each such heart's shame. 
It says more about them and their 
shameless and blame-free game 
than it does about truth or beauty
or good, or anything worth
our attention for gain 
in this or any 

Neighborhood. They did 
one good thing, 
at least. 

And so we might want to check 
out what else they've done, or 
sit with this a while, while 
we tame as much of this beast
as they've loosed. 

It's a longshot, but
by such procedures we might 
find peace.