What happened to Form Blazing Sword?

Nothing happened. It's an old
Voltron callback! Form! Blazing! 
Sword! Basically, five huge iron 
Lions, different bright colors - none 
of them robots, more...vehicles for 
the inside stars of the show, supposedly? 

No. This was no G-Force knckoff. Voltron: 
Defender of the Universe. 

If the best idea 
science ends up coming up 
with eons down the road is 

holy shit! The universe is in need 
of serious help in self-defense! Build 
big hard cats, fast! 

Not so fast. Kids like me (perhaps
like us) tuned in largely for the part 
where the metal cats all locked and 
jammed up into an even more metal 
huge dude. He/It (no pronoun trouble 
in the future one might guess, I digress) 

was Voltron. THE Voltron? Oddly, no. 
2 others at my last count: what, 12? I don't 
know my own age by show back then, but

the Lion one was quintuple best, cat and
dude-wise. Another Voltron was made of
cars...boats...skycraft...a bus? An omnibus
quite large of all vehicular parts. The least
interesting Voltron was just three very much
less metal-looking guys popping together in
one big dude. Sounds gross, but wisely, it
never aired. At least not where I was watching.

The weird thing is, that last, lame-o Voltron 
came...I think...third? Why did they try to top 
a hot rods and ships good beginning and a great 
cat middle with some triple-stooge act? "This will
SLAY KIDS." Well, if you aired it, I could launder 

it a little less foul, maybe, but I saw what the thing 
looked like. I bought one of the stooge figures. 

Only Voltron article I ever purchased, so...must 
have been cheery. Bright red one! OK. 

He puts his hands together far out and looks at it. 
His hands are two lion heads. Lioness heads, if 
I'm not mistake on mane! 

Metal. 

Somebody helpfully announces FORM! BLAZING 

you get the idea. Outcomes a swordy surprise 
for whoever's trying to fuck with the universe 
this afternoon. 

Here's this huge metal guy, for ya. Wait, but 
look close. It/He is made of lions. 

Metal. As a kid, I could stand way more 
metal in cartoons than I got to.  

the difference between critique

OK, Mohandas Dewese taught 
me the proper power correct 
use of English, so please 

take what I say now as white 
and clear. I only hate rap when 
dad's around, and only for his 
part in it (so unconsensual) and
I never openly diss by word 

either way. His taste, nor the 
genre so wide it has only one 
issue to pick incessantly on. 

The cause? Recent action movies, 
it seems, tart up the dish by a liking 
foul to big dad's ol' ear.  

Or he claims so openly.

My big wise shutmouth
is pure sympathy no emp.
Or...anyway, let me plea, 
OK? 

Cut the old guy a big pair of 
slacks! This is his time, okay? 

His taste in music is so ancient
it cuts exactly this racist in 
tone: by mouth, okay. He lets 
on divinely: he does not like
what is called or sounds like 
rap music. By implication, his 
false colored bigotry shows LOUD 
though!  

He loves practically any black
musical performer who is willing
to sing, not TALK over it! So...how's
that for hypocrisy? If sound only, he
apparently goes colorblind! The old
bigot trick, fools none these days,
thanks. For lo, plastered over his
beloved action movie time, so 
full of flat hope, an occasional 
gem pops out of his mouth while 

I'm trying 
to watch 
the film 
for some reason 
unrelated to background music, 

usually? OK, we differ lots 
and tons, love to both sides 
of our same-tails, different 
coin. Or whatever. Genetically? 

Close call. In science fiction, 
I could have turned out like 
that, but who's prophesying? 
Maybe I might yet!  

It galls the guy so hard we have 
sit through that piece of rap, and
though nobody turns a movie off
on that score, sometimes the relief
picture ends up being squat. A big
dump bin reject disc, in the so much
(USUALLY) safer space Steven Seagal
creates, by efforts too late, too hindsightly
to save legacy from its current dominant
ass note. He makes music for his 

own films. Not always. Not at
least. Just. 

Hard to tell that so hard/soft
spoke boss no, not when he signs
checks that presumably skip the whole
pond in one chuck. Like a still, zen-
esque stone across a filmy, depthless
but quite still, violent surface. Apart
from how little fighting he does himself
these days, in between drama scenes he

scowls at all puffed up at us. Me, dad, 
share a look in those moments. 

Point is.

Point is. 

I love rap. 

Dad is aware of that, as in: he was so
familiar with my own early work as
M.c. Voltage, he even took time and
pain out to critique some of it!

This good guy is not unfair, people.

But as lip service, and only for THAT
old man when we catch up on barrel
scraping flicks, 

together (family time quality? GOOD, 

put on any damn thing we can see between
us, I might possibly be moved some way, and
who cares for the score unless it fits so good?),
I say

absolutely, 

nothing 

in response to his clever, loud tag "crap"
- as in "(c)rap music," (c) on Dad. In his rights 
to claim, apparently. Oh, yes father you are
that original. The only thing

worse
than a dad joke
spun so pun is the
neighborhood-class martial
arts critic sitting next to him, 
perched by own ass through

so much 

I swear, junk,
about any time one
of us 

visits.
It's on. Its home. 

A tradition that kept itself - for good!
What a loud, banal night, but some
of the movies are surprisingly 

not what you think, quality-wise?
Not exactly what you foresaw, going
in! Surprise? Well, interesting to plump 
for what exactly surprised you about...
what? No, not what, per se. More just 
how they did that, there. A touch, I do
confess. Nice touch?

Kind of. Surprised me! Perhaps for me
to ask me: "What DID I expect, just
there, from so modern a take on a one
-man self-defense rampage played 
largely weaponlessly (sometimes, dad
prefers guns be used. Where available
in-plot? Implaudible, if not picked up
on, shot. If they're so 
serious against
each other,
why all 
the unarmed slam-dance danking 
around? God, dad
criticizes who leaves
guns on the ground 
with bodies tying
the rest of the room
together, and then bolts 
off to look for more people 
trying to kill him - him? 

Oh, pretty safe bet. Him usually. 

Runs off leaving gun-toters beaten, 
senseless, right by what appear to be 
usable tools for this! Dad packs a wry 
crack on that. I demur. Or...well, I chime 
in, if and when. Why? Well, wing it I say.
Carefree breeze occurs to you? BOOM!

What if that's the one shot this crock of
cinema gives you? Ow. If and as it hits me
in the funwise, or a barn-size bull's eye, 
or a cross, hairsbreadth interesect absurdity
-mark! On pull, loose!

I quip, okay? But just. Usually I'm too
into the zone-in immersion film trick
to help hecklers egg.    

Surprise! I am not the one doing that,
normally. I'm other one some pull stinkeye
at: the seer of twist endings before they
show, ONLY if the writers are up to the
untwist-straight shot I plot, only reveal
by short, flat, direct literal hint. 

To the wise, this could be rude. So I shut up
about if, when I know this date's norms
are boundary specific on the shush tip,
please.

Tips? No? OK! Just ajar then, if 
no tips you have - want a couple? 

Sure, I give up freely. I recommend:
go early if it all on the Seagal oeuvre,
if at all, but...that BALD hard guy Jason
Stat or sometham? He picks scripts on

shrewd basis. Apparently "How literally
written-for-me does this play?" 

Not a bad punch-stunt person either. 

And he can rap. 

Any pro actor can. The writer just 
makes your lines rhyme for you.

The Pane no-one knows

The Shadow knows me. I am 
the pane. I let shade freely fall 
upon, or light pass through. That
Lamont chap is a self-honorary
halberdier using kung mind fu
tricks on the sly. Some cheat, huh?
I call him a piker. Wants all people to
know how bad he really is. Just so. He
really, really is that bad, or was once, and
for too long a stretch to yawn now. By then
("now" back then, I mean), everybody 
knows him, sees him cast in every shady
vaguely homo sapient silhouette - the guilty 
get antsy. The not so guilty? He can save them
with no complaints left to speak.

None who saw him. Apart from when 
he shows up all gaudy, virile and light
-clad bachelor, acting no part but ease! Like
young enough then, cool and sleekly mannish
Alec Baldwin on an old Orson Welles kick. 

Play both sides blind, in plain sight: 

an ass is shown,
big, cute and pure cheese!
That's his alibi, later picked up 
in nicks of prep time for perps,
played as a blind

by Batso. 

Yes, Batso. Writes the physical
equivalent of a hard haiku on 
crime's strongest walls? Got 
recruited to a team of so-posed 
real-ass gods, only just not, against 
his every better wish? Batso! A real 
koan critic by device and martial 
arts, dressed up like a SWAT stud 
gone native on cosplay tropes. You

...heard of Batso, right? Jeez! I thought 
I was way off on the wall and flying out 
by I-beams! You don't get out much, if 
Batso scares you, or you're surprised 
to hear what he's never done. So well, 

though.

Whereas the whole beef to cheese Lamont
ratio is his private business. Cranston didn't
go bang zoom to the moon, alas. He would,
but for the cost back then. He just eyed it
once, at night and saw both sides round. Now
he fights wrong doers so fairly-well it's just life!

His crime-lord routine doesn't kid. Purely a dodge
to keep crime hating the darkest of all hints. A bad

laugh.  

It is this low a blow to find evil-no-look bad 
guise packs way too strong a punch, evil, literally
or materially, can't even compete with full dark
set in to take a hand. Poke whose face? When 
it really gets cloudy, even worse! Looks like rain? 

Stays home to watch baseball suck pastime in 
some other town. New York power native, sat 
in his usual drinking game, but this time pissed. 
The Yanks are taking the Phillies so hard, he thinks 
somebody switched teams and uniforms a bit too 
slick in the locker rooms! Looks at the date! 

April 2? No, no wait - this is a delay.  

His top crime boss in town maneuvering
is strictly a dark side-hustle of his. He pitches
this evil boss gig like a lark, then recruits all the
not really very willing bystanders he can to the
Dark Full yet Fake Wrong cause! How? By saving
their lives! "I have saved your life. It now belongs 

to me." Talks like a dark lord, walks like a passing 
breeze - floats boats on a wave, like clockwork. What 
a confident artist for radio days! "Special effect - 
invisible? Jesus what a lot of budget conscious 
overseers we got these days. The public will never 
swallow invisibility by us just clonking props and 
yelling about it!" 

Nobody's quite so skeptic or cynical 
as the magician's prop comic opening
act. To the side, kicked, as if by a long
hook and crook. Seething with ignorance 
at tricks that literally do work - every time. 

Right in the mind, sounds about right! "Saved
you: join me." What a gag to bind hands on! I do

just the opposite. Way cheaper, if you check the
books. MEAN,

WHILE,

guess who shows NOW. Here! Not 
the hero! Too ugly to do so good, badly.
Why - his towering huge and ugly nose
alone butts heads, unmistakably with
your face, and breaks, even!

False nose, so soft and hard-large, no
one could buy it as a put-on. MUST.
JUST!

Be! HIS nose. Whaat? The guy is supposed
to be so gloriously wealthy (he is that)! Pop
in at the doctor's office. They'll take one look
and lop half-off the bill free! So, anyway,

up pops one eerie schnozzlola, almost Gojira
-ish, -esque - his knowing trademark on-point
by crooked finger, whenever
he chooses to show, for real - clad in personal
appearance, for some reason. Clad darkly in full 
light, even of day - goes about as if he hadn't 
a stich in the world. So exposed. fully-clothed!
Visibly all half-face, dark suit, cloak billowing
empty of bullets - all holes, you could say. But
you can't see through any now. He is like right
there. In the flesh, no spirit in sight at all - no
such insights likely to come in to this just work.

Why, that scarlet hanky-wise act really puts you
on. A MASK? Under THAT? Who do you kid
with that, Ill Will? Or just free whim? His
big nose
is all out for proportion!
Some way so far above his loud,
even mouth, (spoke so DARK,
though) (is he Echo's new young
punk human sidekick or what? Is
he Narcissist incarnatum? Is he
...no.

He is just playing you, for game
as prey or else to save for later
good cause. There he is, in person:
right now. Taking so looks so
terrific, so horridly real, you will
never
see him

crack

your smile
by invisible fist.
Because he fights
fair. Always has. 

War code.
Not on crime,
just dark itself! In all
men's - yes, all - men's
hearts, with barely a glance 
at any woman's so-so aglow 
or not too soul-deep eyes - except 
to check! Lady or other, perhaps 
gentle person? He respects
neither by class, just as any one 
would warrant - or merit. 

Or demerit. 

A fair judge of men! Procrastinates 
very well, until finally, goaded by
entrapment's raucous no-joke laugh, 
you explode in a hail of wrong-way 
lead - or so he puts it do you, by
an ask with no question mark - so
far from rhetoric you feel on the
spot: "You literally tried to shoot 
me just now, didn't you." 

Of course? 

OK. Proven not innocent by me, 
in part.  

That's...just an even slice,
so you have no idea how
hard he means to do well,
really. No idea why he went
so far dark himself, he saw
all things by blacklight shades
since. It's all true, but...

...all such true stories are probably
called bullshit in cheery colors by
Snopes! 

No fact check, that. I don't really know
their take on L. Cranston's real career,
but probably they cite radio as fact, call
the rest made-up,
since it was.
For there, where he
stood - he stood, nowhere quite, 
yet so close by. You could here 
the little noises guns make
coming out. 

Both guns huge - equally
unseen: equally fair as life 
is, typically. Known by loud
and sane on-point - with a difference
to note in tone! Hear, if...
BOOM.
Boom. How do we know for real 
he even has two such fruitful fiction 
canons? He could be just real, real 
slow on the sarcasm trigger-pull, 
trying to reassure us he'd

need to pause 

to aim? Not
too bloody likely, 
show fans. 

All done by tricked light,
well past the eye: a boon! As a gift
to crime itself. Well-wrapped chap,
that. No ass, though. Trust me. That
ass? Is so level. A real creepy guy,
all pulp

facts
run backwards
where he steps. Doc

Samson is not impressed. Wait. Sorry,
that's the greenhair muscleman, Hulk's
therapist I think. Doc Brass! No. Bronze?

Weight's off. 

Gravity? 
Fate?

Not Doc DOOM? Shit! No, no, the old
guy! Trained up by pre-genetic mad 
intellectual revolutionaries of a hateful
and bigoted but then-idealistic sort by track
of long thought, born to go bold on us all!

Heard of now only by his long, echoing steps
in some distant corridor riddled in long, straight 
line by dot of: a metal disc? Small? Oh! Coins!
Man, I sure do remember...look! Is it heads? Tails?
He treads on quarters called willy-nilly, so mad 
are plots he frustrates villains and amazed a once 
at least somewhat literate public, to young in the 
mind, probably, to be picky then. Famous! Among
the no longer living, come on! Doc...Doc...

Ah, who cares. You know the Man of Bronze. 
Doc Pulpit! The...no-shit Sherlock beefy
well over six foot benefactor gone neater 
than a gin ricky in Casablanca back then!
Up for the world, all over USA style for...

heck's sake, Doc What? No, not the Galatian
time-box twister with cat lives tacked on for
sheer brand value deflation...although...the
new guy is the single hottest yet. I am not
kidding. I'm not sure why though. Look. 

I never 

pretend
to be stupid,
but it's clear. 
I am, too stumped,
too 
dumb
to give a Google at it. Mind fail!
You  win: check.

Q: Doc?

Savage. 

I honestly would not have guessed that. 
Not in two quick clicks. Who is your
nemesis, then, Boat...Miss? "Boat Miss!"

"You sure dock savage, pal." Or...academic
rivalries are fierce! That's kind of savage, so 
to Doc's savagery? Master Mildness! Or...?

Shoot. Nurse Kind? Milky CIVILIAN? Doc
Brass did it better than the original with a ginger
buzzcut instead of all big airy and blond hard
man - that 'do a clear dig at Savage's dark roots.
One time, I saw it. Played strait-sincere to pop
a fiction balloon old-school canon-wise, just 
do a missing piece ("Planetary") redo from pulp
to comics! All 

for the sake 

of antiquarians
with a taste for X-Files, 
more than superhumanly
X-mutants, or their opponent bros
(sis/bro neutral, peeps, please: do you
go all genitals up in the pajama party?
UNTOGA). Right at the dope top of
such rich heaps of fanning out eyes,
so unsurprised to see good guys duking
and winking it out: The Just Ilk for
Retribution club?

Some crap 
like that.

I piss on it from a low window, and
listen to Crowded House scold. Turned
up loud to gentle, achingly in chime-shod
plod: hey,

now. Don't jump, dude. 

It's just a song. It was over before 
he opened one mouth over so howly
an old, Māori riff. So steady a Kiwi 
could step on it and turn worlds up, 
side down, by tapping all hearts
through 

telling
us it isn't over. We knew.
We knew when the world came in, 
just like that, what had won. We 
about lost. We about knew. Hey. 

Then, anyhow what ass could
look right straight at a window
and beg it not to commit acts of

self-defenestration?

I beg you, DO call dream-over
on that ground level plea, if you
can. It can only really sink below 
sea level, from here.

Fadeback from flashback. Cue
no-twist ending. Guns boom. 

BOOM.  

Doom. That's how Shadows knock
some back. I ask you - I: The PANE.

Could you believe in a hero like so?
Surely you jest.
He won't. 

He isn't, hero.
He is fan itself. Of light.
That's why he plays upon its 
face so dark in mind, pure in
heart and truly, deeply bad
to the bad it's not right, just
so wrong - from a certain,

Darth point of view. Look, Ben
here, done this. Don't go there
twice and try to remap reality
with CGI so bad Lucas puked
when Walt bought the load over,
called forever do-over on it.

Lucas folded like a fast, sassy house
afire! He'd done such work in toys, all
bills paid. It's all...

too long ago, though faraway looks
net

needless

opening crawl-read,

too slow to begin with!

GOOD
TUNE theme, though, once! 
Once. One time, John Williams, 
plus on Jaws and Supes you pulled 
symphony from the mouth of scores. 

I'm more a war peacefully guy. Look
-see for yourself! You can see me clear
out of view or right through me as well,
if you peer. It's no mind 

trick in my case, just a treat of 
light. 

I right no wrong but rock and stone.
I can see well through my so-posed
ulterior motive. Just look! What 

I saw you do there! Goes without 
saying, for my part but - bears 
repeating? WATCH IT.  

The Pane. 

Barely at best a practical 
satire on the paranoia look 
of comic book movie fan 
haters! And yet...also!!

Crime's accidental shattering 
glass of practically self
-inflicted vengeance!

On WRONG, are you...?

"Someone might seeeee

...THE PANE!"

not coming to the wrong 
theater, by a too sheer or 
mere curious chance
glance at yesterday's 
news, primally, not 
principally 

engineered by Fate's Damelike 
Glancing blow or bow. Handy 
justification, for anyone stupid 
or uncharmed enough to just 
trust luck and say fuck it! 

Sound like you? 

Need help? Don't call me
hero. I respond last, and 
my say is so final I suspend 
judgment on any action 
I can't finagle direct 
stake in, somehow.  

Open me up! Scream! 
Your lungs might bring
about help, in some neighborhoods - 
ACK! SPIDER! Cup it under glass, 
can't sense it coming so clean. Kill 
it if you hate friends, but that kid 
is our hero. Shoo him outside, 
if he barges in looking so fly 
on web. He didn't mean to 
jump you. He's just so creepy 
good at it, aims for danger and 
hits it so hard in the cause 
it's worth a lame wisecrack 
or two, just to prove how funny 
good guys aren't - not really. 

Help is there for the yell, in some
neighborhoods. You don't get it 
by crying "OUT!"  

Please. Do not cry "Help!
...The Pane!" 

I am not listening. Just
curiouslyclear on your doings,
it seems.

So hire a p.i. pissant then, tough
guy - if you doubt! I might NOT
exist! I recommend go business 
pro, when the cops are too busy, 
your case not quite their kind.

G.I. Gumshoe, chief incuriosity
officer of PISS EYE incorporated.
Try him, or anyone similar. He is 
so good, though, it's best not to ask
around.

Ignore how cutesy he cuts on the
door, he was born that way. Whatever
name he gives you to know by IS 
real. It happened! "My handle is George
Ignatius Gumshoe. Catholic once, so
you can always trust me not to tell
the Pope a thing." Pause. "My card."

Not blank at all! Damn legit-looking. 
All there. It's an engraved invitation 
open on the public's private bid! Time 
and case, circumstance permitting - you
pay - rates set but amorally flexible if 
the case smells great or easy - help 
yourself to this large, vulgar yet 
decent seeming man's curiosity 
boost. What did you want him 

to find? 

He is the most talented self-identifier, yet.
Doesn't like me exposing him so. Shy?

Hardly. He just needs no help in regards
of his...business, yes. Volunteers freely 
how cool his pay work is. 

GUN SHY? No, but prefers way less
paperwork, so you can trust him to shoot
well. Quite. Not at the customer! Not once, 
not that I ever saw! Good guy - I recommend 
you judge your own self in need of his help. 

I see concern. 

You are female. He is not. True. Once I saw...
look. It's none of my business what I saw. 

I see your concerns are as legitimate on
the face of it - as indeed, all women who
look fair. Or well, in his case. OK. Wary
is a fair, just look at own's risk, in a matter.

But I
KNOW
THIS: from the guy himself, he
seriously cuts dames 

a break on the sex hassle.

He is not. Interested. In unwelcome or
unwelcoming babes (in his view) (my
views on all such matters are - purely
unnecessarily - more

broad than might be called by a guy you
know to well: "The Norm." AKA Cultural
Norm, Social Maury's twin second cousin.
Brothers! Jewish, some say - I haven't seen.
But if so, one is faithful - one NOT. Judge
either that way, you'd be the real bigot. DON'T
JUDGE the Jewish people, by Christ! Not your
call. Hi, neighbor! Even I must

confess just this,
though, on the down-low George tip: 

What a job is done by that lazy ass clown,
right?

Job enough - and very, very quietly
online, in the straight press - nary a peep.
For REAL, though, this calm-eyed wild
hearted implacable peep-squeak is clean
as all dough. Bright ops on the sly, his
open doings would stain Cain's mark off
his own bro's grave, forever blanching in
the face: the original human-murderer! Faces

a real killer. Amateur, though. For love alone
and life of principal. Makes that self-deference
war just in court,

as it might be in a confessional. Not his
favorite box to be in, trust me! He'd
rather spill his guts out to cops,
pleading away a speeding ticket THIS
way: "I'm in an awful hurry officer.
CITE ME, fast please!" Loud?

Not to cops, much, but just. For
peeps in general? Sure, 

if we have to. Fight?

Unfair, count on it. 

Advantage: whoever pays.
He is one juicy chooser if, when. 
Always, seems the job looks like 
a job for me! HIM.

Not The Pane.

I'm...an entirely other guy, I swear.
He is like: pay's high, bank's low, 

take it we must. Life's a bit precious,
dear! Otherwise more scrupulous than
I care to weigh. Advantage IS granted

- to top clients,
far as they can tell,
and for so long as they can
stand the service. Me?

I didn't say it,
you didn't see
it. 

You should see him do it!
He wants pay AND trust
from the public, so he proves
whatever he likes deadpan! 

I'm a fan, but I couldn't say
why, really. For I am The Pane. No
tough guy at all. 
Not like you know
what that is. I see right,
through, and tell
no living yet 
soul. 

I am never looking
quite just, when you think
about how much I see that IS,

there. Or may be.

Why? Secret identity problem, as usual! 
Journo type. Old code. Can't interfere 
can't say - won't report in, except for 
open, public work (mostly to find out 
what's going on - I hate the news! TOO
MUCH CRIME?

That's my...pardon me.

)

My meat, métier, forte, and only foible
is I'm so clear about it, no one even thinks
I'm there. Confidence 

problem?

Wouldn't you be a confidence
problem, if your very surface
would make Mr. Glass pray you
unbreakable by sheer will to pray,
just to prove his stupid, childish point
about evil, suffering being real problems?
Dissing crime as an unpro try-hard sideliner

of humanity? AS IF, tall cool purple stuff. 
Fight me. You lost. 

I wonder why. Call it
security - just in case. It's more 

an unsworn unstained task than 
a job, "pard." I break a GLASS
HEAD over crime's heel, by 

"accident." 

It is, though: and thoroughly
intentional, from my side. Pure
luck on their bad part then. Nobody
ever

SAW 

me.

I saw nothing! Or. "You don't
say?" That's my one-liner on comment.
I won't say. Not online, nor by phone. 

I walk light by reflection's transparency 
hard. 

I ghost mad cryptic and toast 
you with pics of Richard Nixon 
himself, if you really must wax
conspiratorial towards me - my JOB

is one (1) by me! For 

I am always at it, or - just stepped 
away, didn't I!

DID I? I am the Vigilanty Won! 
Jaunty as pluck itself! No-code, 
no call, always more looky than 
nosey. With own-eye noninterference
pact hard, reporter on all scenes! The
truly 

guilty

brought me on themselves. 

The truly innocent better just 
WATCH OUT. I mean, that's 
just...

Good advice, either way, I'd
say. But who listens? I's only
a window, peep my soul out
for justice. Pro bono ho, on
crime's wickedest, most pimped
out-undercautious or overprotective 

JOHN ASS MOB! Not
...not the mah-fi...
um.

Not that organization. 

Oddly enough, they respect
me somehow, or sure seems
so. I can't get a thing on them! 

I tried once. It worked out 
horrible and scored Coppola
windfall that should rightly
come my way, by my lights! 

Frankly, I do try to keep in,
back of people's bad side, in
mind, just a fawning, obsequious
sensation, a foelike reminder, for
any wise or decent spirits to drink
soft..in case

there are any. Decent souls, spirits,
look I don't know 

'bout that.

Ask the Shadow. His
laugh in your face
from no where
you can tell
shows just
about how

much he knows. But...

That's not my problem, sir. 
Do my own dumb ass job your
dim-damn self, if you think

you're so vigilant. 

Anyone could be. Takes

no power set at all, just
a sharp glance and the wit
to keep it quick. Run! Spooky
noise? Check it out

Out of sight

In plain view 

with a glare:

my Pane.

You no doubt have your
own, and it stakes pain 
dear, cares-takingly so 
by the boring, early middle 
part. So we need heroes! 

Yah. You bet. 

My kind of job is not
"for" you, unless
you care to peer, or

as one equal to any
one, peep shy, and
honor another's autonomy
like privacy ever happened. It's no
secret how transparency works. No

one
I know 

can call such open sight 
unfair. Or...not rightly, 

I expect. 

But that's me. The 

Pane. 

Anyone can't see that, 
or calls me vain takes 
a one-way look clear 
as day at a two-way 
street and gets crushed 
for it. Like a chicken, 
more bold than brave. 

Why? Why so no-look 
on the cross?  Ax it to
true splinter, or maybe
just...

Ask.

The.
Shadow, please, 
not me.  

I grow bored of your incessant 
reflection questions. You see 
right, through me, do you not? 

No? Grimy from disuse or what?
Is it beneath you to 'do' Windows,
Mac? 

If that is even real, your name, 
your brand stand - who gives 
a toot? 

No problemo. I like Linux, myself.
Knows security, cracks like a blanket. 
Sweet, sweet, bright, sharp kid! Dim, 
though. No bulb overhead. Hearts it 
hard, but soft. Did you...know who 

I was, then?

When you took the Which Peanuts Kid,
dog, bird et all ARE you test? Try it! 

Clear IQ's only please, but a very good 
try at personality test. Online, you just 
can't beat coming up Snoopy. 

I got the bird. I refuse 
to demand that drop 

clean off. Good view.

On-point. 

Not so good a LOOK for crime, 
though! I'm never in the room 
where it happens I saw you do 

it. ALL. Or, so...you might think, 
so wouldn't you?

YOU MIGHT. 

What a Pane I might be then,
my beloved enemy, my self
-crippling would be arch
wanna be nemesis, my 

rightful peer,

my own sworn and cursing 

foe. Do you know...The Pane? 

Of course. Be clear in this, by
yourself at least. We all know
that 

pain.  

I am no hero. No city or world, 
town or village in my view needs
that. I am 

just the one who didn't even have 

to be there, for all you to know each 
thing

I might have truly seen.
You saw yourself apart over it
on the inside, if that's your way.
No light in those scales. If that's
alright, I'll pass. Right through 
the wall, piss on the other side. 
Dance my rod and call it rain. 

I don't reign one bit, nor rein 
bits in, champ! 

Not my damn job. I work openly! 
You could prove it. Try any bullet, 
if I look stuck up to you. Not literally,
please. You might find my shards, hard
as blood cuts. DNA is not my scene,

really, but 

I have other buds on the roll. For 
pay. Call them, if and when you
care too, daring one. You know how
the help is. Hire them, Curious George

...or some other piss-eye pickle-shy
vinegary dick, M/F, real emmer-effer
or just a peep. For higher call, try it

up yourself! You can't 

hire me. Just own your own look.
Looks as if I wasn't even there, 
don't it? COOL.

I don't mind if you do. I can see 
just fine, dear through. Basically 

- don't let's kid. I'm probably some 
guy who is in fact, a super villain, 
thinks he's no hero anti-or-pro, just 
a vigilante. Monologues endlessly 
in inner soliloquy you somehow 
get by own inner mind's eye BAD 
LOOK! Shows up all clear, but
throws a lot of bad air punches
around, breaks teeth like the Gold 
Blazer himself. Old hero, never
heard of him. Got his start in the
late forties - late bloomer for a boomer's
buds, but young then. Strong made-up
now. "The epitome of two-fisted man
-liness!" His partner, not sidekick, called
The Black N***o for reasons then thought
chic and square, would soon as kick five guys'
bad-ass act sideways, let the Golden One

win on the big boss. It's...different egos, 

in id-synched combination. No powers 
necessary, back then - trust to humanity 
to critique the implicit problems of 
past rightdoers of too-hard fists, one 
with a switchblade left unclicked, 
the other with two fists and enough 
concealed gutsy guns in that sharp gold 
jacket of his, stuffed light with custom, 
hand-sown inner pockets enough to
confuse a professional strip-search team.

What does he do with guns? You'll never
guess. Mid-fight, if the brawls too small
but deadly dangerous for too many bystanders
slipped into it, can't seen to flee somehow, he plays
guns at them by air! Toss to innocents, sidelong 
crack: "Help OUT." He's 

on full-fisticuffs autopilot
otherwise. 

Thank God he has that dark man 
beside him, or had. One died in the 
line of sacrifice. As was and is always
a trope to spot. Sorry. The other? Not
old, 

not age,

not yet, but if you go visit him at home
...care home, now...you will hear him tell
the same tale so many times, so well, so
right, 

it must be proved. It can't be. 

Too many survivors, too scared of how 
strong those two men were back then! 

Me, hell with that angle. Sounds too much,
tastes like work. I just rock around, beat hell
and shit out of miscreancy itself! All participants 

voluntary: I stake per degree.

Collateral in crime is always damaged, when
I saw. Which I have. Clearly. Read a real 
newspaper, for once in a while you will see my
byline, but 

no mention

in the story of

The Pane. 

So I do both jobs pretty well.
Get smashed some evenings, longing
lost to celebrate the latest victory, drawn
up in court all dotty, but a "W" in the
right guilty column - cued by

this one

weird trip: "he" (just me,
really), is always 

on. Look. 

You won't seem to see, will 
you? OK then. 

Prove it. He must exist. He's 
all over the place and the papers
are tied by brick. If that's not a hint, 
try gossip. 

Online is even more reliable, to 
spread the word to any who don't 
know. 

The Pane. Who knows? 

Is real. Or...well, who gives 
a shit about some comical 
angsty jackass's overwrought 
real-secret name? The Pane! 

IS

More of a serious annoyance 
to crime than most people 
can prove. Ask a crime lord. 

Ask the shadow. It knows Jung
so hard, the jury's out on a morality
bathroom break ever since? Paging 
doc psych anal, we need probing 
critique please. 

Wash your hands. Golden Old 

GB and BN, back then? Never 
once did, but by clean, soapy 
flush - right in the bowl. How 
believable is THAT? Picture
these two guys walk in a seamy 
bar, straight for the back and 
break the room so hard it works!

Those two got in each others' 
way, one time. Wait, I mean me
now. And my Favorite no-shade
The Shadow. Once they (we) saw 

how one's dark assumption hit 
the other's clear intuition, ginned 
up beef-like tofu and found how
poorly their same, clashing dress
had trumped, chumped and exposed 

both! In a four-fisted brawl none 
saw - only one laughed. 

The other was shattered. Well. 

Smashed. Win/Win with a shade 
more down then either usually 
likes, and all for the light.   

Good day, Morning already?

Get out of here. 

I am a real, normal, piece of 
glass kept through walls. If you 
watch too many stupor hero subpar 
man movies, girl, I just look out 
the other way on the world. 

You're seeing things. I won't 

even tell. Don't shush 

The Pane. Just shut 
the front door well. 

If you care to, look. I am 
a surface of infinite shallowness. 
Knock knock, no crack no joke. 

A glass window. Just a pane 
you can see through, for once. 

Just shows how easily ignorance 
can see itself. Given transparency, 
and a slight cast back in the eyes. 

No code. Never was a riddle. 

Pane. The Pane. A-plus sized 
pain in some eye's ass, if you 
wouldn't mind? Curtains, 

please. Put some on if you 
worry about the immodest
peeps  

shone out on street,
for random passerby. I mean, 
if you don't care, the window 

can't. 

verbatim - 1

I pray hard all you wish
and hope comes true. It IS true.
Fortunately or unfortunately,
since God doesn't exist provably
up to my snuff (skeptic take), I'll cop that
I pray on my own power. It works!

See, I trust God's judgment enough
to know my bad prayer coming true
is HIS fault, not mine - but I'll kick my
ass for all prayers so foul o' mine. I pray
well enough, like Picard telling the whole
ship to make so what the crew can't even
do yet. It ain't so, John Luke! Get your bald
ass out of the technobible and

Ow. He smacked me down. See, that's the faith
problem in a nutshell. Picard trusts the WHOLE
SHIP! He's right so many times you could make
a drinking game out of it! Get pissed!

I'm like, "it's just a bad special effect, Jean Dude.
Don't smack the fan"

Unless of course, you be all like: "that fan has shit
on it." SMACK IT OFF. Jean Luc Picard doesn't work
that style. Data couldn't do it. Only Spock.

Spock would do it so wrong it's funny, as ol' Bones
has a field day on his A+ fascination trip. OK, that
was dumb. 

Akoan.

Akoan. 
I mean it so. 
It doesn't have 
to play, you know. 

To wisest miss such 
hits come foul or fair 
they wish, but this 

was now. 

scary tear

I am on a scary tear. 
Please God, don't cry 
I am s'aint. STOP. Stop
fancy punctuation, fool!
God is not impressed by
how you prey on words
incorrectly, so knock it
off!

OK, I'm no saint, don't
try to be. Too much tolerance
for prey animals and wild
beasts, no patience to speak
of: just ok with it. Some
saint I'd make! Sanding up
there on Big Mike, trying to
rap to the clouds? Halo cocked
at a rakish angel? KEEP IT. 

I pass. It's not my job to judge
self. I'm so incompetent at it,
sin me for the mention, even.

I do try 

to keep fit, sane, healthy, 
because self-care is not 
merely alright, but a right. 

Skip the happy, I say. Go
for joy, alone. If Joy shows 
up, tell her "your welcome
is assured here, Joy!" She'll 
take a pass on that, don't worry. 

She can tell you meant it. How 
about this? Lark! Because free
whim got in to sing on shrill key.

For me? 
O, mi o my,
come off it, pal. 

That song was for all birds! 

Nobody's that special. Not unless 
the bird  
literally 

lands in your own open hand, 
and you're so wonderstruck 
by the chance you crush it. 

Figuratively, now there. The bird 

lives! Got away fine to a good
bush and snuck around in there
a bit, counting leaves by beak
and tail. But own up: not all songs

are yours 
"for you."

Take them at you, at 
best. Learn the words
that stick, 

and just say so.
"Tears aren't 
scary silly!" OK!
Sorry I cried?

Sure, why not. I hate to upset 
wannabe empaths. Those people
are some of my best peeps! 

manyfesto

Had a t-shirt idea.
Good one, I think!

A rectangle, 2/3 square
and wide (white block
on black ground, or any
good color contrast fine):

ANTIUS

TEAMTHEM

...that's it. That's the 
shirt, but looks like 
crap in type. Antius 
is stretched wide as 
teamthem is cramped, 
all bold n' blocky - you 
know the type. 

So, 1st sight, it appalls 
a bit! 

anti us
team them

what the crap, 
you tool around 
shirty like that in 
public, dissing us?

Nono, no it's like this:

its like is ilk. 
its kind of class
its for you all 
for face and ass.  

i am for you 
against us 
for you against
them

against me?
Sure! Try me
you might hate 

me.

Had to 

go there. OK?
A-ok. 

It is for 1, okay 
for all ok by them
selves, or gather 
role or roll, call 
or draw. No knock. 
Check!

So like:

good idea team 
bad taste balloon 
full of helium or 
not, talk sincere 
on it. Aim level!
Come across, not 
down. You not so 
high, guy gal lass 
lad. PALS? Please. 

Peeps! Personal. 
Not binary unless 
you dig general truths 
so hard you turn into 
an M/Fer on peeps 
for no good right 
or fair cause! What 

an A+hole. F-sharp 
would go better, there. 

But YOU
CAN 
SUCK

is half the whole point, 
ok? Personal style! We 
can taste it. We tell by 
tongue: foul from fair. 
It's...free, pal. PEEP
IT. Right? Peeps n' 
peers, right? Dang 
so. Just rightly. 

Only as one prefers 
to dish and eat - crows 
crap too! Lord, they 
don't miss a face, 
capisce? 

PALS? U and I? 
ok could be, but...

Not yet, surely? Bit
fast in a hurry to find
faith, huh buddy? Trust
is only by knowing who
you trust, from what you
find you can trust them
for. That's fair.

So, hold the friend 'ship
yet, not yet. Not by me
and my boon allies. Let's 

get to know who first, 
then what around a lot! 

How about it?  

High ground liberty! 
See it from the down low
Open it openly 
if it sucks say so 
if its wrong, charge why 
show how, tell right 

if it's war fend strong, 
forth hard, fair fight 
and die just for a glimpse 
of liberty's mound. Or...
hills. 

But not for you. 
Only...OK, for you two 
dude! For one all. 
By one nil. A tie 

only for no-contest fans. 
For fan fans, a bond! For 
shit fans a word fight or 
BACK OFF. 

I think it's one heck 
of a t-shirt idea! No code, 
all signs go. No trick, all 
tell and show. Sound OK? 

I dunno. I dig it. Kind of 
kind!  

antius teamthem
here we now let's go

careering about

If I were an artist... 
the public would love 

hate like "not like" dislike 

or want/not know me 
(just how I like it!) at all, 

while
the critics
would key in
opposition: knowing, 
unwant, like, indifferent
(: same as "not like"), love,
abhor, abort, revile...all the
adjectives (and other would-be
modifiers. Parts of speech
don't really matter to what
critics think/publics want)
they can sport diametrically
against some particular

peopley reaction theme.

Like they do. Keep up! 
It's the job. Turns bright-eyes
canny analysts into butch
contrarians by the
yard, lusting for

notice, sipping 
sweet 
deep anxiety
from  each
other's

shakes. 

It's kind of a tell 
critics in-the-know
don't want you to.  

Everybody
see/know
that! So

if
I were
a critic...crap.

It's just same beans
backwards! 

Some inner tortilla 
with okay beans
all fake cheesy 
(gourmet niche 
cheese, weird tasty)
(fake as in situationally
inauthentic, not vegan)
(no nacho cojones, gender
irregardless and so-so
sure it's clean), wrapped

around
that thing

by hand! Or AI 
-hand lately. OK

All packed in sloppy 
and chucked by 
the publisher! 
TD!!

Bad pass
though QB. Was
that anxious? Did you
throw it from the throes
in security or what! Whose 
go-team

did you used
to be on? 

It made
a difference, 
maybe. Or could 
have. Heck it 

to bits, then.
Keep guying the
line and pitch to yaw, 
right home. Rowing 
hard with either 
oar's handy. 

Hard work! Huh!  
But as it's playtime, 

don't
expect much 
gets in your wake.   

some gumption

Some gumption is worth 
the dudgeon it risks. And 

some is not.
To find out which,
just give who you are
dealing with what you 
are sure they'd want!

and miss

The risk you take? 
May be your own. 
So if you care, dare 
marrow bone. Or 
skip that beat, 
to find your heart. 

Held up in you 
by state
of art

eary aim by canny eye

That's A,
i.

M. 
I am 
aim in

just pretty much
I spot from here, 
within, to way out
in the trees. Or are
those waves? Just watch

the leaves and sprays. 

To look, see - try.
Find out or test, it's
all a hard game caught
between
we humans - bean
toss!

Sum mess, huh?

Not bad, at bat,
fat transom seams.
What's that think
fast? Quick! Compass

it!

A pitch, due South 
- a bunt! Some kick! 
Just walk it off, pal. 

Charge the mound?
You hypocrite! That's 
not a sport!

It's alright, if
the ref calls foul. The fans
know which seas come
to port. I have

a hand

in what we do.
Or only I, hey 
that's cool too. 

And it's no lie,
I got goodwill
on one-tap, two 
feet on the hoof.  
Can walk will
dance. Can talk
will sing. 

But if I miss, 
you sir, mam, 
miz, or peep, 
my peer? No flair, 
no bling, no ding 
no bell no prize? 

Just fall behind
your eyes lie
crystal balls.

And I saw 
futures past
all count, once,
too! 

Until I learned
amounts, and 
reckoned how 

to add without. 
My aim is all
I fault for miss.

Plus in the act, 
a consequence
it caused. That's
all.

I'll take
the punishment
by tongue, the hits? - hey!
Great! What wits! 

We all do best in
crisis, hun. Or worst
in bad case, might 
be won. 

Could be just
cause, but I leave 
laws just all
as judged
in halls.
From recent 
writ, by precedent
- by selves, or elves,
or Santa Claus
itself! Oh ho, ho 
spit. 

Catspaws! Purr fecked,
and howl. Hard woo 
flings neck to neck.
Authority has basis, 
true.
It's fine
and found, how's
yours?

Why you?

By basis
each authority
has bounds. Ain't
hard to see so fine. I aim
my each own authorship
by signature, and sow 
it fine in itty bit, by
willy nil.

To give, look,
read, abide, stand still
and serve it all owned up, one
side. Like none deserved?

That's all's call, mate! Abide,
please. It's okay to some
design, if all decline.
I didn't give to make
you, mine.

Nor easy-please.
I drew no line
but just the point 
you rose
in me.

If I gave that
and missed?
We're free. 

No charge, apparently.
One tip! Ten thousand
bucks up in this mote. All
for you, deer - but only if 

that's just the kind of 
math you dote.
I dolt so far,
or do it don't. I dew 
by eye. You in?

Your wont? If won't, 

I'm nail! Go drive
the hand picked screw
that turns the way you like.
Or pound me flat! That
thunderclap?

F-sharp. G-flat.
My favorite 
note, and chord
at that. A bell 
to charge a bike
ride with. 
So: altogether? 

As we wish. 

reboot city

Our good, old characters 
- always in primes of lives, 
natch - have grown too set, 
too shiny in long arcs that 
always end up fine, and 
no change to tip with. 

Nothing let to surprise 
any party with but wet
-eared geeks, not even 
fledged, not even newborn 
yet when those salad days 
flew. 

They best and worst of 
these fan-hacks peck
endlessly in ancient 
canon's fire to piss on 
and out-argue each other 

over who'd win in a fight 
for real. Shitcan the whole 
continuum everyone loved 
too much to change forever!

Buff them up to total! No, 
too buff. Tits and butts out
everywhere, sales in the crapper 
and critics smell land ho! Nerf 
them down hard to realistic, 
cynical misanthropes like 

we all know the powerful 
must be behind their caped 
(backwards bib, baby) ass 
backs. Oh man what that 

writer just did to who looked 
at first a bit super was foul. OK
cut, print, adapted to screen 

out the real fans 

who once understood these 
arcs and plots, by archetype
and butt-trope. Lampshade 
it to caramelized charcoal
lumps, kids. But ugly as 

hell, and inert. Unflammable. 
Not "in-" now, nor ever was 

not like this. Kid yourself, 
if you want an action character 
to look up to? Don't look at us. 

Make your own. Hard, fast, 
more real and fixed wherever 
it breaks. Stern stuff, child. 

You too were made once, 
and that will 

be your undoing. 

maybe 
might
can do 
me if 
that's alright with you, 
too, sweet toot? Peep 
on, chime in, whistle 
stop and spot the bright 
ops 

now holding 
on all lines open

don't forget to wait 
for the moving picture. 
If come too soon, and gone 

call it a miss, adventurer. 
And far forth right on. 

In review: elvis costello.

I love him. I know, I know, he's 
not the best guy. I don't 
know that. 

Only his tuneful acid panache, 
which even his detractions admit 
is smashing, world-crushy - lest 
they fall in reaped rows, felled 
by their own inapt critical 

hackumen, 
which, 
isn't 
a word, yet

odd. 

Anyway, from what I know 
he is SO SOUR. Some say bitter! 
Forget it, has your tongue no ears? 
SO SOUR it squirts aridity itself 
by both eyes glaring! 

Anybody can do that, I say ew 
or ooh to ick or awe and merely 
quit dreading the encounter. If 

I to I contact hurts, you look too 
hard, chap. Check your ass first 
quick before it explodes! That guy 

bit of a dick obviously, takes it out 
on the world - overcompensating? 

Ah, you wish projectionist. Just sit 
quietly and change the reel, 

already

WAIT. DID HE JUST DIE?

I hope not. I didn't write this for 
that! I don't throw wakes to get
requiems. Hell, I don't even 

know the guy. He did me 
a favor 

maybe!

post dramatic testsim drone

No more flashbacks 
to old mirror arguments 
for me, please! 

it's a bad look 

anyway, as I 
recall we one, 

who's recounting? 

enter hot nihilism

Honestly, I am having 
so much time right
now. 

Is it good? 

Well, it is right 
now. Later it may 
seem all stupid! 

It is allowed. 

No Koan

Nothing ends eventually 
except eventfully, if you 
look quick long enough. 

Try! Being can-do without
know-how only so long, 
without being kept 

back. 

please dude

I was told I'm incredibly 
dense and clever. Some 
asshole in the mirror trick, 
thinks shading his eyes 
dims mine! Let players 
hate their own game, I 
say. I say: Tough Guy,
if you're so

gorgeous
and strong 
- what are
you doing 
gazing so
long

at me
for, huh?
Brush your 
teeth, flush, spit
and done with it
already. 

Wash your hands 
of your half of this
whole deal, alright?
Homer to base! We
copy. 

Over and out
"please dude"

Poet's ol' trick.

Sometimes, I am so 
good at coming up 
with poem names 
I don't even write 
poems. Just string 
a lot of poem titles 
together, add line an

d stanza breaks - looks 
cool, means well for 
now! Later maybe 

those babies will all 
grow up. Poem Army, 

all in one dumb-looking 
kindergarten playground 
pen. OK, not great. 

I said it's a trick! It's
not a trap. Steer on 
by bum, my good 
taste friend. It's fine 
by you, it's cool by 
this I. We alright

later, maybe 

If so, you'll know 
you saw me first! 

Pathwise pound.

I'm not sad or mad at any of this! 
Just trying to get through each day,
one time - without some pileup of age
to drag my steps all dogged and bowing
behind. Is that so fair? 

Am I right? It's is but just so. 
Fair as life. Call a spade, man
- dig! You never know

what fits a given hole,

'til you step out across one. 

In you go. Hold the applause, first 
please. I was not finished. My breath 
- I held it. That's why I'm still here, 
I suppose. Walk on, carry a little, 
shovel a lot and who knows what?

Could happen so much

Is that Huck Twain?

I've figured out how 
to Huck Twain, I think. 

Think like Sawyer, 
Mean like Finn, 
Sow like Samuel 
and reap, eat and 
bake endless complaint!

Oh wait. Bad. Bad tick, 
no dog in it. Not a lot 
of fight's worth, either. 

OK, skip columnizing, 
humorist is out. Try 

just Polly. No wait. 
Becky. 

She's beautifully cool 
for you, dude! Quick! 
Impress her with a tall 
story, full of lies about 
why you expected this! 

That's Hucked Lemons, 
Longhorn. Mark that spot 
X: don't dig. Find another 
map. It's - hint - buried 
someplace. Ask Tom, 

he knows everything 
right.

That guy
is a real brass tax
you could hold in mind
and heart forever! Dying 

and laughing inevitability.  

Bitter pill sweet capsule reviews #2:

The G, The B, & The U. vs SWs 1. 

It begins: 

Cool! That movie
was so great

and so long
it didn’t even have
to add up. I don’t know
how they pulled it off.
Sure fooled me!

Although, I can see how Clint stood
around for three hours, daring the world
with his eyes alit (from the hat) (in brim's
dark-pitched shade, rigged by Sergio's so
he-male gaze) all keen for hot flying lead
- but only if you want? Looking about as
“Good” as he smells in that getup, probably
- is not to all tastes.

Probably.

Try Han Solo! He at least took a bath in outer
space trying to score dirty once in awhile!

Clean guy. True, not too kind or honest,
though. He means so poorly, it's a wonder 
he wins so easily by it. Charmed life, or 
just that raffish charm he exudes at a 
flat out full-tilt run, yelling and blast 
everything! Oops, turned a corner 
there - backtrack quick fast now, 
too, you two: Chewie! In here!

Jump the ship! Make
the hyperdust chase US. On
computer-course. Correct! 

Are we here yet?

What's with all the rocks
flying? OW! Get the 
f***ing shields up the
hell out of here! WRONG
GONE ROCK, hard to beat
that to conclusion. What 
now?

To the moon, fast! Ben: 

"..." 

Look.

What do you want?

Totally different culture Han grew in. So
long ago faraway, he calls us:

Out hot on a big game money hunt, taking
every turn so wrong so fast, ends 
up at heroism - screw this!

Oh wait. 

that chick

That Babe, I see 

DIGS this! Oh yeah, she 
loves me. Said 

so

"I know." 

Blondie never was much 
for the ladies, at least 
not so to speak. So he'd 
take one look and grunt, 
probably. Nice clean 
outfit, dude. 

Han could kick his ass 
in three words or less,
I reckon! Probably:

"Go, Chewie GO!"

When you pack the tall 
dog by your side, who 
needs bullets or bites? 

Rip the arms off. Done. 

Bit ugly, that one. 

It eventually ends. 

Taut midair all on the line

No, you don't read
too much. 
You read too little 
of

what's just there.
You read wild, maybe
because you find
that natural. And
holy shoot you
score most 
tries.

This I criticize here
is a high worth mark, 
and praise no diss. You
read not too much meaning 
only more than. Greater
than where I lacked. I left
you wanting more, and
didn't 

mean to.
That's on me,
that's what I say. 

No bad on you. Still 
we could play a nice, 
kind, real sincere line 
between us without 
depending on tricks 
being there for enjoyment
always - right? Why not. 

So easy if. It is easy 
with us, almost 
everywhen. 

Say fair: maybe what's
right on the surface is 
too easy for you. You
think more of me maybe!

He must 
mean more
than that. More must

be there!

A wish! Good one!
Sometimes I do mean 
bonus gleam, but
it tends bright 
enough to read 
by, so I flatter myself.  
Between most 
lines: I do
not. 

Just aim. Drawn taut
from me to a point! Just 
one line, really. You can 
tell, since if it really curves 
it's an arc with real physics 
in it. No fine line, in 
the fancy sense of 
occasions to get 
wine-drunk in 
clothes too simple 
to call fancy, but 
so simple we find 
elegance no luxury, 
but simple fit in rich 
moments. No between
lines at all. Just fare
between us, if no one
pulls a boner and tries
to pass it off as a bird.
With wings! Look! 
The shadow! 

Meaning levels up, huh? 
Still a bonehead move
to pretend it should mean
more and it doesn't. What 
are we?

Fooling? Oh, we kid
at will, whimmo. 
Sorry! I'm whimmo, 
if you like. You can be 
kid dynamite, swashbuckling 
ex-mastermind of the Zen 
Extreme, or whatever 
fits character or mood! 

You play so well and 
true I can't imagine 
you off base unless 
you stole it home! 

What if I'm not, though?
You act like you look up
to me, which is so high
inside when I see it, but
I'm kind of level with
you at best, and often
- but not too often -
I have to play way
over my thought level
just to get ahead! Not
past you, just ahead
and shoulders with
you. In a given case,

what if - no wait. No say
'What if.' Say no if. This case:
here. One in meaning. Two
to pull, draw, flip. Or just 
catch and rocket. 

Say I'm not. And try this.

Going in: crush. Kill.
Metaphor. Flat. Delete
bonus level. Follow one
line right as hand. You
choose which hand it's
on: I am on the other.

On-the-level: there's
the placement, here's
the windup - you know
who - and a hard shot from
home to the big hitter, up
on the mound! Left me 

right to you,

left 
to right: 
easy. True,
nothing fancy. OK? 

I mean I do bonus 
levels fine when I'm
on point, in the zone
you called in
and bounded out
plain and fair. Fun stuff 
for both - you catch me
sweet all the time, no 
problemo!

But half the other time
I feel you get irked like
a knee-jerk cryptologist,
taunted and seduced all
foul by a simple ingredients 
panel. Where does all THIS
come in? This does not 
explain hot and fresh
bread smells, originally. 

As if I jerked you! But 
I just gave you the stuff,
pow on the level! A tough 
looking scone flown from 
hot ovens, served baked 
goods - drop a clot of 
cream on, honey!

Literally! Delicious 
as-is, too. Or 
a bit plain to bite. 
Go ahead, drop 
a big wallop 
of cream. 

No cross-eyed 
between-lines read
to find, though, not 
sometimes. DUMB? 

No, it speaks, it just uses 
very words, all sizes to 
fit no fancy but plain 
vanilla. Girl, boy howdy 
if you want fruit where
there was none, you've 
got to take the ground 
prepared, tuck a pit in 
it and wait for it to rain
by your decree or dance!
This meadow wasn't 
a burgeoning orchard 
'til you showed up all 
peachy, fuzzy - pissed 
at no plum to thumbs 
up! But

the meadow was 
and is okay, right? 
You loved it. Once 
not enough. Well 
hell's meadows, girl! 
A plot like this, dense
with wild growth is way
better for your fruit
-jones efforts! About 

every 
time

you root a winner, 
and blooms smell 
so good while we 
wait for me to catch 
up. Sometimes, a weed 
that survived all that 
crap you threw at it 
by eye - finding it absurd
to be so one-I of sense,
wanting strong meaning
- was and is 
a pretty 
wild 

flower.
Bee as you know,
drink deep as nectar
is, honey grows thick 

maybe, later. One plus
one does not make
hivemind. But there is
buzz to find in two
becoming one in some
sense. Trust me, you trust
you to that when it's yours. 

You give plain to suit too!
Well. Try me that way, 
maybe. Clear! 

Just 

pat the paddles around 
my chest hard, I'll jump 
pretend 'til the juice hits. 

I don't mind play if both 
are in, and know the rule 
if not always the score! 

Try this: kill
"say what you mean" 
- as if I didn't!

When nothing but just
what those words mean
in a row pulls weight. Direct
pull - all in a line. It sounded
funny to you, so naturally you
dove in for the joke. Finding 
none, credit me for plain 
sincerity first - then pop 
a fun comeback where 
funny should be! Don't fault
me there wasn't one. Nothing
funny there, really - my fault? 

Well, that's fair. And that

was sarcasm - which you knew.
Sarcasm is intended to be caught out!
'Another meaning meant' blares, there
- a pretty hard, fairly hurtling toss off
base, which you are meant to catch!
Well, anyhow: to know how, where,
why it IS NOT just as-put. It is put
a touch off, with aim in a way
right on the money, so you check
your pocket and grin, neither tricked
nor robbed! Sarcasm streaks hard

to miss dumb mark and hit funny!

Sarcasm is A-OK, not a mock job.
Oh, it can be - calls to the tosser,
I say. Meant well sits well, as
excuses go. Meanwhile, sarcasm
runs nude not cloaked, easy all 
through the field of grabby hands, 
wanting to seize and accuse what's 
no joke, exactly, just a fun off-aim 
both caught deliciously in flagrante!
To catch and beat for butt duh
meaning, not dumb.
Both feel 
smart!

You threw it that way, 
I knew it that way.

Cool. 

I get sarcasm where I can,
but not my style for taste when
I give. No good at it; too sincere.
Usually it's only this: "say what
you mean?" No: I meant what I said.
Just that, maybe not much - take it!
For what it's worth, not more no less.
Why not try it? 

I do not put a pan in the bush 
to mix up a big bird metaphor 
for you, to pop in the hand. 
Pretty, stupid. You're supposed 
to KNOW on another level 
from that old trick? But 

it's obvious I do not, when 
first thing: I said:

I do not 

The metaphor switch got 
stuck in the off position, 
right? OK, he does not put 
a pan in the bush. Who 
would? The rest reads 
plain one line.

No gag, dumb
if you want to 
say so: but plain 

meaning shines in it. 

If you want it, there. 

It is! So, don't flatter me
on my multilevel barn if
you can't hit the big, flashy
side. Fire! One side of the
barn's ablaze - NO THING
else in the barn matters, now!
Put it out! Get it wet
and cool down fast!

Wait.

My barn is stone, though.
Flint rock and lime. no twist.
A whole lime. We know that's
not real fire, then: glimmering 
in heat mirage waves from 
one side so big the whole
thing would fall over if
it depended on any
other side but front.

Well, that side. No door, 
so, front's around back. 
This is the bare big 
backside, barn 
girl. 

Right? It's the moon
-literal side, acting
showy in the sun
on some not dumb
not mute, but basic

thing. A HIT! Now 
you're tossing rocks! 

Fire and forget, let fly,
find land. Simplicity
itself is not hard
if you look first, 
get just that first,
what's there. Then
try a dive, already
satisfied after 
a big peanut
butter meal. 

You don't have
to wait an hour to wade
in by glance or just ask.
It's only water, clear as a bird
from one's hand. Ask: the answer
comes of itself too soon to count
as clever. Don't 

call that steer bum. It's 

a straight line shot! Vertical!
Not aimed from up the butt,
but from gut - or heart's bottom
off top of the head, bounce from 
the tip of tongue and who knew? IT

was all I meant! Sorry?  

Other level(s)? Sure I 
love it when your smart 
play of line gooses me 
up so caught we play 
catch all over the place, 
glad every toss, more on 
than off. I get there if 
you fly me.

You do. So much.
I don't hate or fear
your fall, nor disappointing
you when I know I just mean
it. We do catch up, 

clearly. I trust

you can beat me up now 
and then for standing leg
deep in shallows, beckoning
you in. It's cool. I literally ask 
you for such crashing waves
you bring in to sea
from dry sand. Wild 
gets everywhere,
but 

me? 
No fancy nose for it!
Not by aim, for starters. What
I said is just the line I sent, most
like. If it stinks, it actually
smells real first, then maybe 
if you got that part, just
for what it as-is was,
taken as a given, (it
was), who minds if you
wander bewitchingly 
enchanting to the first
cliff. expecting flower
patch landings?

Not me! You find some
I never knew were there!
Then I feel smart and
dumb at once! The
epiphany finding no-seek
Wonderdolt, on call!

Yep, I meant to say that
and did! How wonderfully
it means now in minds
combined. Some trick?
No trick to it.

However, look first. That's 
all I'd ask, from the start.
It's often all I meant to give.
Look first, ask questions after 
- or leap! If you leap too far
for me to catch, too far
for all I threw you, I note it

midair 

and race you to the ground! 
I will catch up, to catch 

you.
You've caught me 
doing that every time, 
and the fall in your eyes 
as you found me out not 
fancy but plain is okay 
sometimes.

We both like fancy,
where it fits. We know 
each does, but this 

is key. 

Only one of us is 
any good at it to begin 
with. Not me.

You are fancy free.

I am jack catch.

We do not miss 
much. 

acid taste test.

So, gold bites teeth 
one way, and fools 
all the rest? I say 

that the proof is 
a rule-breaking test, 
unless we were right 
all alone on the call. 

In that case, we knew 
that. If not? 

Play ball! 

blood-sucking leeches

Blood-sucking leeches at least 
cured disease way back
in the days when
placebo said
please.
By now 
in that line,
there's just double-blind test
in two groups, one controlled by
a sugar-pill guess, while the other
gets drugged.

And some study compares.

Results not neglecting to factor
the power of thoughts and prayers:
if the sick one holds hope, wills
to live, thinks it works, we are

always roped. So surprised how
the mind is a lever, and bodies
just jerks, to respond on string.

So it works. It's funny the faith
that coincidence brings to the fray
on all sides. I say:

Break it down! And trust that
truth will
if you wish,
and look close,
persist beyond clown

down the root of all dopes. 

Sur Regalia.

My whistling, dark steampunk 
fixation never took so bad a turn 
as that one time, at Ren Faire, when
I got caught out in full, funky suit
of armor by a she-mage  - no, that was
this female witch bizard's identification!
Said so on the badge! Her look

...said what's up robot. This is a fucking
ren fair, you know right?  

Oh. Yeah, magic user, what do you 
actually
do here?
I lost my uh badge, I'm not carding
you, gatekeeper. Is Hypocrisy a second
-level spell now? Dungeon's open these parts,
sure - always room - but looks like your wand's
dragon. Real magic is not welcome in such place
you propose to put it, surely. Or is it? 

I'm a courtesan ass. Who the hell are 
you? I thought fast. 

"Iron golem." 

She looked 
up
and down, cast Invisible Nod,
and her eye glanced a question 
that stuck fast. Pretending to be
age appropriate, we went off! 

All over. It was sum fun for all 
in range as we trekked questing
in search of rebirth, adventure, and
more experience points. The usual.

Later up, our combined armor class
ten by then, we discovered something
foul.

Her alignment! She was awful: called
herself Lawful Chaotic. That's nothing. 

 I was Evil for Your Own Good, and 
that kind of alignment mix found us
both too kind for cruel dice to add up
a level, and fused & confused as to how
we'd stood so far, so fast, or could stand
any farther.  

We were too alike
for make-believe, too close
for real, and away far out & in
too fast - love too soon? No, 
but just.

We'd already balked sideways 
at the price each paid. She paid
full Faire!  All the fixins! 

I snuck in like a loud, clanking ninja 
knight on steam power and sheer aplomb.
OK I knew the guard on the gate. Told him 
I'm a performer, which...did I lie?

She was too demure to demur.

Anyway, maybe I should have omitted
the price I paid from the backstory confab.
Don't mess with a paid-up she-mage whose
hat's tall three-ways, diaphanous capes breezy
from each tip, wears a robe slit up

to infinity, speculatively, just
a slip to one side

- and carries a wand
so large
she could put far worse
than a glowy effect up your
iron backside. We settled on: my treat,
rest of the way forever.

And sir? That's how I met the wife!
What are you dressed as? Leonardo
DiCaprio miscast as Davinci, making up
the gap by a stunning case of method acting?
Good take on era-appropriate, though. I say,
all these medieval types seem high on
anachronism, sometimes. But it's their drag,

right?

Some wife, huh. Good woman, but a little high 
high on hit points to need protection from us 
guys, right? Let's just say you invented me, 
and I'll just
clank and clunk
my mosey-mode way
over to the cowboy quadrant!

They have those everywhere,
in all times. Or so I inform!
Or else, well I'd misinform.

Now,  
I doubt that.
Do you? 

Draw and cast,
then
ren
man.

Expecto petroleum!
Activate steamwall! 
Iron up and charge! 
That will be zero ($0) 
dollars. Raise?

OK, I'm all-in
usually. 

Please, check.     

cycling tips

Some trip, others
roll. Still others
stay put. Still!

Fair is like just.

Just is like riding a
bike off a log! At the
mean end of a tall, steep
hill: hard ride, short trip
- but fast!

No one saw? Not bad.
No one could learn
to forget a thing
like that.

That's why
it comes back

to you.

In-moment, by catch
and drag easy recall: by
obligation, in principle:
you knew what to do

once.
Once we all did.
Remember those swanny,
moronic duckling days
of youth? The horse
you beat dead then
rides you still. You
know. That was all
back then.

But wait - look! It
might just apply! Now,
such might may make
do. Yet oh-shit somehow,
VWOOP! You done rode
right! Off a log! Put - quick,
why? There to protect-what?

A cliff? OK. Good job.

That's fair. As life. As you'll have
to allow, past a certain point. We all
do go over to wow! How? or ow.
And/or row like a boat
on oar mode.

Ka

-plow. As we might
say later, optimistically
at this midair, soon-to-be
hopefully midstream point?
Or any reasonably bushy landing
if we can overturn in fact how
we turn over in mind: “Any row
you can walk away from wasn't
that hard to plow, now.” Was it?  

see saw problem

I deduce 
to find

observation 
opportunely, and
not or only rarely 
the reverse. 

I don't do
deliberately on
purpose. Only 
intentionally do 
I aim. 

I put a jump
play in my foot
for practice, ended
up with a game leg 
to stand on pivot 
mode, head out
on a swivel and
swing balls as
jut just hangs

all y'all. No 
worries, mercy 
first. I convict 

myself in suspense 
of judgment, which -
even frozen or canned
beats benefit of doubt 

hands down. 

In short, I do not believe 
in doing things backwards, 
but I accept it works. Just 
as well as fair enough.  

If you can't
intuit, back 
into it.

Good, true, beautiful 
and indifferent
can be equally 
cute, ugly stuff
if you look 
well. We'll
see! See? 

At sea 
upon heaving 
subjectivity 
all about one 
unselfsame 
boat,
 
you 
float 
I 

at
me. 

And I 
hope. 

And why 
not? My 
knot likes 
ties with 
winners. 

brand stand

Ever since work
switched to free

Pepsi from free
Coke,

I sure do sleep
better. But I
so do miss
some nights.

Those nights! Ah, slept
right through and out, out
like a baby, out like a bike.
Fear of missing out? No 
fear. Try sleep! You can't
miss.

The nightmare of missing out
awaits, and may awake you -
but you bolt not quite upright,
look around - midnight!

WHY 

Am I even in bed yet?
Is this a dream, or the other
thing? - no lights, no big city,
no noise - no fun, baby. In theory.
But oh so good, beautiful sleep
since...damn Pepsi.

Quick, up at night?
Forgot to check in
or put out a feeler on
what's up? Call the friend
squad! Contact the BOON
ALLIES and find if anyone
got boozed, coked to the gills
or similar, flipped out socially
or otherwise made a shitshow
of themselves or others any
where this evening, if so

was I missed? I see.

I see. Did I miss it, then? Where?
Any witnesses yet or still there?

Who? 

Copy and hold out! I'll be right
there on standby  - LATER! Than
you might have preferred! Much
too early! For sleep, to-nite!

COKED, or soon
will be - what with
my good gin rummy 
whisky spirit piss pourers
and bibbers about, lugging
lagers, cocktails and shots
around the room and down,

and picture me there soon.

Alive, alive! Intruder alert, intruder
alert! And...I hunger? Ah yes, arise
alive, grab a bite and bolt to the car
- let the car drive, please. I just steer,
here. The breaks?

I trust my foot on that
floor. Either pedal at
this hour - light and easy.
But first: get up and get
already, arise, alive etc.
Fix a bite, chew on the
way, arrive, park, swallow
the door - HI! All, order

- anyone for a toast? -
clink (if), imbibe, stand
in and check out 

you. 

Who I come to see! Apparently,
'cause you tipped me the hot gossip
on the down-low, and lied.

It's just you! Here, now - what?
- okay, I know. You fished me
by hook, you crook! Or, look
you could be just honest, like
you always said: "Everybody left
when they heard you were coming!"

Sure story.

Well, they can leave, that's cool.
It does get late quick this time
of night doesn't it? Sure, one more
round - yours? Thanks! - then
if you don't mind the false
(or short) time out?

Bed call!

Right? 

I mean, wait sorry. I meant
- my bed. 

Not yours, I didn't presume 
such. What - ours? A compromising 
situation ethics dilemma call, eh? 

OK, I'll bite. The answer is 
yes, sure: IF you can explain 
where such an ideal location 
of "our bed" exists? You know 
full well that's Schrödinger's 
bed - miles apart! Or if you 
can explain how, simultaneously 

in one place! Yes, sure 

if you can explain the works. 
Okay, agreed to disagree then 
not now. Sleep on it, fight out 
the hypothetical implications 
in the morning? OK then. Drive? 

Sure. I can drive. 

Steer? 

Ok sure. I can do that too, damn. 
I didn't even finish my drink!

Thanks a lot for dragging me 
out, really sincerely. Next 
time, why don't we just 
stay in with so much 
Coke and booze 

they'll look for our bodies 
all over the place, and 
they're we'll be. Stone 
sober, bolt awake
and still trying to work out 

the bed problem of location. 

reality.

Stop. 

All the above and below is
not just, but is. 

Fair as life! 
Itself not fair, 
not unfair. Nice?

OK to sum. Do 
your own part, 
as you deem, as 
you find your own 
wont, sake or duty 
binds and finds out. 

Clear to sum!
All of it: in itty
-bitty nitty-gritty 
willy-nilly biggy-wiggy 
any which-way you sum!  

It fits! Guess what, ass? 

Most did not come 
to this party to math 
out
inescapable
conclusions from
a wholly absent, untested, 
untestable (and so inevitably,
unpredictive) no-business
'model' of how action

in fact
occurs, with
or without options
n' fixins. 

We came
for no reason, 
maybe, but we don't
find a stoop so low
to scratch out fake
fate bible logic 
in the dirt

so productive. 

We find purpose by eye 
plus the mind's behind, 
grasped in aim and both 
hands on fire. Unsurprised?

Not really. It all works, 
and perfect is a worthless 
adjective! Yet perfect 

is an all-purpose great
gotta mighty 

verb. 

Check next time, and 
the time before. You 
will find all points sum 
fine, once you score. 

win/loss 

sum ration 
of rationality 
we bore. 

Too many much?

My character arc in 
this ensemble piece 
is pushed in the shuffle 
yet not quite lost - 

- I think between pro 
and antagonist parts, 
which loom huge 
dramatic
for fits

and starts,
though nobody
noticed, I found

my arc.

It's hard to stand out when 
you don't care to. Be nice 
to all equally gel in goo, 

but wherever this goes, 
I don't have to. 

I don't mind finding out. 
Oh, hey. Do you?  

The terror of plants?

Plants are,
rationally considered,
horrific. Imagine
if they could put roots
through you and walk around
smacking you into things.

And yet as things are, I love
them! Because they don't 

I count so many more blessings
than most
because my imagination is terrible.
What a gift, though
One day I bet
it gets taken back. Hm
Well,
no solution,

not a problem

hell's melons!

You're a whole cool
watermelon ripe
for the knife 
as I sit
by the hottest lake 
of fire in hell! So, I know 
you'll be sweet, so
cold like plums 
from the icebox I stole 
just to land here, well 

I can contemplate 
carving a slice 
all day, but 
there are no

knives down here.
OK.  
Which

is just 
and good 

since, I'd never 
poke through so 
big ripe & beautiful 
melon-like you

we are both 
too cool 

for this baking 
shore. But with you 
here, I'd sit for a spell  

or
more

redlined openers #1

"What a rich, juicy eye 
you gave me just now!" 

...Is not the first thing to say 
to a girl, woman, man, boy, 
bro, sis, guy, dude, dudette,
prospective dudess, gender-
neutral dude, peep, peer,
guv, "bruvenor" (just no,
say no bruv) son, daughter,
kid or kiddo,

Sunshine, boss, chief or
anyone else you don't
know which of those

they are already! 
To you! I mean
it! 

Not online, 
for real. Not forever,
endlessly always
and for bad sushi's
hot sake never right
now.

It will never "be
the moment" for that
one. Poor line, bad
cast! One huge-flung
cast iron-sharp hook 
hung midair and rusty,
resounding in all ears
here with a can of worms
punched through all 
wiggly on it,
and ew.  

Not anyplace at all 

to try
THAT.

Not that, no
please nope it down.
Vote nope to the big
juicy eye-line, wise
guy or gal, pal or
no-pal. I don't

give a dick in a rich contest 
who you think you are, or what
you've wrongfully accuse yourself
of having "pulled off before." LOSE
IT
LOSER! BAD
CAST

Not any time you
do NOT know
that one

so well
as to surely
tell (surely before,
and correctly after: there's
proved!)

yet how
they'd
("they'd," for simplicity's
sucking fake please, really
you COULD OF found OUT
by now, serious)

react

(liable/reliable)
(no guess, but 
hunch okay if 
your gut's up 
to snuff!) 

to
THAT one.

OK? Look.
It's just a crack
that, honestly, most
untried potential rapport
-bearing surfaces could do
without, on so upfront a running
cannonball leap wannabe
plunger
stunt 

into a 

pool 

so wet 
so limpid- 
deep and lucid-cerulean, 
oh 

uh-oh, 
paint job,  

NOT chlorinated, nor
salt, nor water this dry
concrete surface looks
way too deep a leap
from up here!

Why does life always
go slow-motion at
the worst times,
when a bit of
retrospect
in advance, you
know - foresight
would've been a
better superpower
pick? You know...

Running leaps from sea level
are for chumps anyway. 

Showboat move. Stock in
unrequited trade for the kind
of unworthy sea-seer who can't even
sail aright to port, plus worse: got no
motor-chain,
to yank outboard, got no
anchor chain to weigh, no

oar/either!

And a hole in the mast! 
Climb up top, you'll see. 

I say! Try the diving board
next time! And think of
something else to yell,
maybe,  

across a crowded  
room 
for 

suddenly, two 
plus (+)
any (?) amount of
wildly
deadpan
nonchalant
eavesdroppers, who
-wait

Uh oh, yep show's over,
tell-timer. She's coming
over all smiling perchance
to give me the eye
up-close!

Closer,
cloe

's-her, WHAM!
OW! 

UH! 

OK that did it! You 

-hey, both your eyes 
do it! Well, wow. How you
been then this day? Good 

one? 

Folks, 
it'll never work
that way 
twice 

in a million years, and the 
first slot's took. Sorry

"Because don't"