Forget the good

Forget the good we are, I
forget the good we are, or it's
as if I do. Each time
experiencing it again,
like here, with you - I just
forget
it was this good
before.
It can't have been,
can it? Except
I have distinct recall,
and yes, last time I thought
as much; I swore to it. Thought
just the same: it was

beyond all best

I'd ever found or known.

And here I am, and so
are you. As usual
with cover blown -

as good as anything
we do.
But now
I know. I guess
we couldn't keep it up
forever. Still. Here
we both are, keeping
it up. It's looking like
we always will.

As if you had

As if you had to hope, you tried.
There wasn't any truth denied.
There wasn't any evidence, to rein
you in by rains of sensory deceit
or trickery. No optical illusions,
we - no auditory counterfeits. For
it's all here, and it all fits.
There once were fairy tales of dells
and forests, dragonless with elves
made up all stiff like mannequins.
We've done them up in motley,
smart as harlequins and rode them off
in pantomime upon our costumed,
clumsy back - a mighty hoss
we made between us two - so many
trips we took, so many forth
and back again, for denizens
to safely cart away.

In case it burned.

And when it did, we went to town
with trucks of elves, turned out
and all marked down to sell.
And if no one would buy? Well.
Towns burn too, you know. In such
fine ways we cleared out youth,
the magic and accouterment we always knew
would have to go. Washed it, wiped it
clean as snow and settled in
for greater things. Now it's
all here. And it all fits. It's bound
for greater things we are, and bound
by greater sentiments. There wasn't
any truth denied. There wasn't any
evidence, but finally or now, we find
a relevance, upwelling from within
to take us long ways 'round, and
all the long ways back of homes.
We know what we shall finally find:
behind some picket line of fence,
with sole protesting garden gnome:
a lasting peace. In lasting place,
where finally we'll be released.
The finish line. Home safe,
yell "base!" and slap your hand
on cold concrete, as all the chasers
running lost, yell "Tag!" "Not it!"
until they're beat.

The haven't been happening

The haven't been happening came
to the other day. It wasn't a normal.
First we all looked, then
it seemed as though we were going to have to.
But there would be a soon, very hopefully
to deal with. Later, the party
and all we were. Nobody could have!

Without the second, it was going to have
to wait a minute. Fortunately, though
- we suddenly have.

Never again could anyone ever, not
after such a sense we had - tremendous,
in those days. Why, it's a marvel no one's
made a name of it. What could it be then?

What could it mean?

Only such things
as have always fallen
together, haply by accident,
as if fate's chance
had finally come.
Would you?

Something Else to Feel Mad About

Another song so much better
than the one you wrote,
but you'd written it first

You came out before some tiny part
of the world,
to plant it right between their eyes -
and grow

and everyone there at least, surely knew
you'd given them peace from a blessed land

and when it came time,
yes when it came time

you chose a different stand.

This weak and wan
and trembling thing
you raised up
from so strong a calf

into so weak and bum a steer -
it is to laugh.

But throw your head back
as you do, or else

you'd let your tears drown you.
You swim and swim but can't pull clear

from tidal pull, so great you were
in all that past.

"falsest dilemma"

Without you
I'll just betray someone else
maybe myself
maybe someone else

I been good
my whole damn life
it's got me what
a run-on sentence
I don't want

full stop
or question mark
to end, but

Without You
I'll just betray
someone else, maybe myself
maybe someone else
again, I'll just betray myself
or someone else,
or maybe you

and then

I know
I never can
betray you, though
Except maybe that
is why you need to go
if I cannot betray
someone, I'm going
to slip underneath
this weight of me

and find some way
that isn't mine

without you

books and their sourcings

I do love loaning books. I never
expect them back. Why burden myself
with cares? I know
if I have to buy it again
- what a powerful thing we have
there! What enjoyable reflection
on what we have in this book's
pull and draw, it's appeal
and force. What renewable
value, to find a repeatable
test, in this field of all-too-often
one-off results? That is all
you can get from most books. If I have
to buy it again, then I have to. I want

to participate, actively, not a passive
participant, I: just open and read? Oh,
that will be me! But first:

I'll return to the scene of the crime,
where I burned my dough that first damn
time, and I'll burn it again: in sacrifice.
A reverent act, like it always was. And
I will be then, once again

a material aid

to good purpose
and such good cause: the publisher
and/or book seller ("or" in the case
of a used book store). The makers
and givers (at reasonable rates)
of such great things
as very good books.

When I know what I want,
and I know it's good - I don't mind
paying more than once, if I'd rather

not wait.

mr. fallusy

I like to take your argument
and set it on fire
in the shape of a man
- it's an effigy.
And you're always surprised
since your argument was
made of bricks! With an iddy
biddy piggy inside, well
it goes to show
that you can't
trust me.

Better hide,
I'm a horrible
man, crying wolfish tears
at the shape I am in, under
foolish moon. Someone bit
me once, I was harmed
and I never got well
from that magical wound.
That is hardly my fault
after all of this
- what and who I am,
plus the character that
I clearly have - you conclude
you cannot trust a thing
I say! Let alone what I'm doing
from push to shove, from better
to just plain bad.

You'd be wrong, to conclude
such a thing. But perhaps
you'd be better that way.

I have taken your stance,
I have tilted the slippery ground
where you tried to plant, and I pushed
and I shoved you down hard. You are
sliding now, so far - the abyss
is about to frown
when you land
right smack
in its unblinking eye!
Which you couldn't have missed. Oh
well. You should have faced front
as you slid and fell down that slippery
cliff, or bluff perhaps? Could've stared
it down, made it blink just once
or twice, at the light from the sky,
through which you come crashing in?

But why?

Who can say. I have given you
so much to know, and uneasily
down. I have taken the highest authority,
I have hung strict quotes from its awful nose,
I have taken what ignorance proves

quite free, and clear, and you'd better
believe it shows.
If you wish, you can call
mister fallacy.
That's me. Better spell it
'phallusy' though,
'cause I'm really a dick. Informality
is a charming style, if you can

pull it off. Sometimes you can't tell
if you have or have not, with such
see-through clothes. Well,

you work with whatever
you may have got.

pep talk

There are so
MANY
women
WHO ARE BEAUTIFUL

That's not a threat! If
woman, you've got a man

who can see all the beauty out there
for what it's worth, well you know

HE IS WITH YOU

for some other reason!
Or anyway

not like it sounds, but
that doesn't mean - I mean I meant
for some "additional reason." Obviously

it's implied in his eyes
reflected in yours when you both
open your eyes

in the middle of a shit-hot makeout session
and scan each other's souls for tipoffs
"how's it going?" "proceed?" "continue?"
Obviously that's what it meant. It means

beauty.

He doesn't think it's some
rare archaeological treasure
to mount expeditions over
"I have discovered a GOOD LOOKING WOMAN"
"ANOTHER ONE? WHERE?"

It's normal, let's not lose our heads, men
you have a woman
who she says is your very own, you say
"likewise" and
- what's more beautiful? THAT?

or some passing stranger with a lilt
in the hitch in her hips as she walks, and flips
you the bird for noticing?

Come off it, you know the real answer.
Stop thinking in your pants, those thoughts

are obvious to everyone. Be real.
Be open and see beauty. Wherever.
Observe to yourself, "Big deal" wisely. Say
to yourself, "Big whoop!" And then

go

reassure your woman who says
she is yours. She said it for a reason, right?
Could there be more beauty in the world

than there is here?

No man
No. Not probable. So

Go

Reassure her:

Read her this poem

Like you mean it.

Because you know what?

I'll let you in on a little secret

you do

YOU DO DUDE

you totally do

you fag

the episode

The scene begins out
in the middle of nowhere, or
seemingly so. It probably is
somewhere, and probably not
in the middle, but: all we can see

are the silhouettes

of some kind of tree, repeated
in sepia tones, like stage trees
set in irregular row, for the shapes

they cast in the mind: desolate, dark
against what's left of the coming light.

A twilit and gathering gloom
we dive in.

In particular order, events
occur.

Troubling. The protagonist - she

isn't aware she's the enemy
of humanity, and neither are we
but she's starting to get
the message: there is

a monster out there, or
more than one. And in
the house, and its gotten inside

her mind, no doubt. This life

had to die, but it won't, and
it won't. Until we all fail

the attempt will go
on, and on

'til the end of the episode.
When there's a big reveal

don't ask
we don't know.

trapdoor mat

My thick pile of bushy fibers
says welcome upon it, but don't
mistake the invitation. And
as your hand unbidden reaches
out to press what you suspect
is a button of mine - don't forget
to wipe your feet, quite thoroughly.
The spikes so far down there are kept
sharp and piercing, spotless clean

for you

so as to void the risk
of nasty sepsis creeping in,
after a fall so long you'll tell
yourself ten stories why you came
on this, your free and easy way
straight down by games of gravity

you shouldn't play.

the best you

If somebody loves you
They're probably right.
They won't be mistaken,
deceived on that point,
by you, or themselves -
but sometimes they are.
Don't try to find out
by going too far, or
with tricks or with
traps pushing truth
out of joint! The
best you can do is
be you and give you
the best that you can,
and they'll figure it out
(they always do) before it's
too late, or just after, just
when

You were sure
it was fate, and it
isn't again.

"urgent require"

We must live now,
we must find through,
for once we die
we won't be able to.

sizing up

Kids on benches
kick their feet
until the world
grows up for them
to reach. They take
the world right-size,
however big it comes. It's easy
just believe your eyes. As it
begins to shrink, they just
reach higher for some treat.
If you just take it as it comes,

no matter how
small it all gets
the world cannot be beat.

Act like this could make you famous

Act like this will make you famous.
What would you be famous for?
All your friends will see you stranger,
showing your true colors or
confirming what they knew you were.
Captured screen or video
shared globally, so much disgust.
Clear the coming calendar,
and say goodbye to who you trust,
who trusted you, and say hello
to everyone defining you by this. Right now.
So how did you want this to go,
and what did you want to become?
A better, decent person, then?
The kind who acts with thought
for feel? How admirable. Forget it.
No one's sharing that with anyone.
It's common. Please. Get real.

Next time, don't think
before you act, just act.

Then we'll have some fun.

her day, from you

mothers had to come in first
and find some reason strong enough
maybe just
the love of her life?
common as a fairy tale, or maybe just
some ***hole man
Eventually, she turned to you
to show how right and wrong
she was. Eventually,
we always do.
Huge tons of hope
coursed through your tiny form
back when you didn't know
how hard hope was. She sang hope soft
in made up words, when you knew only
comfort, joy and fuss.
You knew an unconditional love
a mother's love. She'd wait
on you and circumstance
to bring conditions in,
and she would see you through
some way the two of you
- or you, at least - would
rise above. If possibly
she can, she could, she'd see
that you'd be blessed.
You are. Held desperately
to make believe the world
with you in it
is best.

default 1st reply to your comment

I assure you, the fact
I don't care what you just wrote
^^^ up there - is not in retaliation
for your not caring for what I wrote.

I just don't care! I wouldn't have cared
anyway, if you hadn't written. When I read
what you did write, I couldn't care less.

It reflects well on you that you wrote
(if not what, necessarily). It shows
you cared, to show what you don't
care for. Perhaps,

you even dared to hope that I'd care
what you shared! If so though, whoa
Nope!

It's not that I don't care
what anyone writes,
it's more

that opinion self-adjusts on sight
in worth and scope, automatically
between give and take. When you can SEE
someone's trying to hand you a hard, dry pellet
of rabbit scat - is THAT what you care for?

Take it then! Pop it like eminem
but beware such habits build
bad breath. Again:

From your side, it reflects
well on you that you cared to show. You dared
to share, and it reflects more tellingly even
you felt what you had there - is something
others, too, could care about. Why?
Because it is yours? They might care

for that reason?

It makes sense you care, anyway. And I

have no problem with your offering. We all

show ourselves in what we give.

Takes a certain daring.

Thanks for daring.

see me through

I want to be perfectly clear on this.
Clear to the point of transparency.
Clear as invisibility. I don't
want
you
seeing me wrong
you see.

At the risk
that you'd see me at all, I take
this chance to make all of this clear
to you

I know you can't hear me,
but will you believe?
see me through, please
see me through

bell the cat

The cat's in the room, again
- no, out. Gone off without leave,
seemingly. Never leaving at all
- just gone. And oft, you can't tell
if she's here. A curt, thorough search
of her favorite haunts
just reveals where she's not,
just now.
She moves
without notice, taking
small pride in the room
for doubt she slips in
to fill, and the one
that she leaves behind,
empty and just as still, except us

huge lumbering bums.
What things! She's very
aware where we are, and it comes
quite insultingly. A touch put out
about it, she finds. We're
no fun to stalk
at all.

There is no rush, but
there never much was
for a cat among humankind.

When we see her mid-motion, it's only
a favor - example she's trying to set
with a slink, sinuosity forward
and bored intent, antenna-tail
high, to switch and to swish
informatively. "See? See!
See this?
This behavior?
Beautiful, don't you think?

It's how to walk.

I swear, you would never
have known, but for me.
You'd never have seen this
at all, if I hadn't put on
deliberate stroll, as I chose
to show you this. Otherwise
I would wait. I habitually do
- for the wide, black bands
your attention holds in.
I just get up and leave,
I'm aware of them.
So are you.

But the difference is I
am aware with ease.

Still I cared enough,
or at least this time,
to try,

to teach you a thing
or two, by and by. Dear kittens

you're not going to last in this world.

Someone's going to snap you up - and then
who'll feed me?" A touch hurt
in the dignity, poor little girl.

She concludes her walking speech
and leaves. Even letting us see
her go. Her name
is bell,
she moves silently.
We can tell.

More than that,
we cannot know.

stone

There's a stone that you hold
in your mouth, in speech.
It doesn't exist: it is
round and flat
where the riven and cleft
streams and rivers of words
you have clearly outpoured
all your life have rounded it.
Sound as fact: on the sides
and top, and flattened beneath,
this curve, that opening drop
- all the nicks and tics
of consonant cut, and swells
and upwells and fulls of vowels,
the shortened stops and tucks,
the pieces of sense that don't
show up, and never are missed
by familiar ear - are down
to the shape
they did not teach,
when they taught you here. But

say,

I can tell where you're from,
can't I?

And maybe in part
what I think of you! All by the stone

which you carry in mouth,
to shape all your words around
what's true.

That sick, twisted fit

That sick, twisted fit
so thrilled we found
has been cut clear and quick
into sacred ground
where we vowed that we cared
what we came here for.
I'm not sure about us anymore.

I'm not sure about any of this.
The cross you bare like a weapon
engraved, embossed - I'm meant
to recoil from? I suppose

it is.

I suppose you think you've won.
I suppose you have.
I suppose it's war.
I'm not sure about us any more.

You can arch your back you can aim
your hips, you can rock and writhe
and depend on it, well if the you fits
I will wear and bear
up as well as you wish,
and whom shall care?

I was glad amazed
to discover your tracks.
To believe we fit
and pretend to match,
but as perfect as we've
never seen before,
I'm not sure about us any more

long confidence

All guilty lies
Are now burned clean
All guilty scars
Are glistening
Like glossy lips
between such kiss
As only guilty lives
could miss,
As only guilty truth
could bring

And you
By now,
you could never betray
the idea of you
that you've given me
How I well know,
no. You,
by now -
somehow, could never betray
what you've given me
wow

Oh, these innocent marks
we've been and gone
so coldly conning
and charming on,
such cunning and wrong
and graceful gulls
we've been, each
easily duped by swells
and grifters and wits
- we've also been,
so sharp and dull
'til we spot our tells
- obscured by all
of these webs to spin
the game, the plan
may refuse to gel

And you
By now,
you could never betray
the idea of you
that you've given me
How I well know,
no. You,
by now -
somehow, could never betray
what you've given me
wow

oh, no

the unbetrayal

I ate the idea of my own foot
once, it
was delicious, and the aftertaste
haunts.
I stopped telling lies when I realized
truth
was about the same in value, plus
it insulates you. I constructed
echo chamber of my own design,
I refuted invitations to join
my kind.

I can teach how to
not do
any such stunts

but
I can't teach
myself. Which is

what I don't want.

drawing class

I majored in art;
that life drawing class
I took was a revelation. I defy
you to take that class
with that professor, those
classmates and those models
and not wake up bare weeks into it

to how beautiful
human being is
physically.

Because
you will be
sitting there halfway
through a session, and you will
have lavished and worked and pored
over the drawing on your board.
Half the time drawing upon it
furiously, sometimes with
the eraser, the other half
drawing blind almost,
in dim glimpse by lower periphery,
looking up and away
to your subject,
who is by no means
an object. And then the professor

over your shoulder. “That’s beautiful.”

And you look down,
taken aback.

It’s beautiful.
The textures,
the values,
the volumes,
the shadow,
the lines picking out spare frame
and tender sags, the
defeated posture half-sprawled,
half-risen to look for hope, or
death. Yet

the one person who walked in
that day, and stripped off
was never your idea of beautiful,
then. Or whatever
your idea of beautiful was
at the beginning of the semester
- though several earlier models

sure were!

(The models for this class ran
the gamut; an important part
of the lesson, I think.) But the drawing

is beautiful.
You were working so intently,
so hard on it in the small time
you had - couple hours?

Ninety minutes? You didn’t see.
You raise your eyes and look,
and see.

Maybe for the first time in your life.

How beautiful is one single human being
right there in front of you.

If you’d notice. Beautiful
in vulnerability. In hope, in fear. In attitude
and posture, and every way they hold themselves
can be beauty. Or in how else
they may hold themselves: the anger
and distrust,
suspicion they flash
across face and arms, the threat
of harm - here can be much
to find ugly. It is in

how we hold ourselves, often
in reaction to how others have held
or hold us, or we think they do.

But so too can beauty be,
from the same source. Beauty

is not in the eye, but in the hold. Of the beholder
and the beheld both. It is in
and between how we hold
ourselves.

In the appearance itself, at rest
and unmoved? There is even there
much to move you, but

there is noting at all to conclude.
So nothing to judge.

Everybody's Thor

I realize I'm a lot more Thor
than I ever thought back in the day
when he kept pretending to be
a super-serious humorless
cripple with an M.D. and
woo Jane with stern words, I
was like "Who is this guy? Is this
the wit of Asgardians," but how wrong
I was forsooth! He's just a big fun
guy! Not a manchild as he's called,
but a puppygod of some sort! Embarrassing

to realize wry deep absurd truths about
how one grapples joyously with one's life
to the death, from a dude dressed

as he quite fitly does. For him
anyway, I'm not going to cosplay it.

I always saw myself more as the Vision:
calm, cool to cold, stern and precise
with better powers. He could go rock
hard in a thought and just STAND
THERE, or, in another thought
of lightness and speed, he'd flit
through the very solidity of the world
- like it weren't no thang! But

they kind of messed him up. He acts
all goofy and peculiar, like
he doesn't understand them
humans. As if their ways

aren't sensible to an android. Well,
maybe that's realistic, I don't know
- but they always made sense to him before. He was all
"Yeah guys, act how you know. Wanna see me walk through
a wall!" HELL YEAH, VISZ!

That's more my attitude. But it did give me
a cheap geek thrill the way he manhandled Mjolnir
like it weren't no thang. "Here, Thor"

He observed off-hand on the hand-off. "It's business
time, and I expect you need this."

Turns out no
He only thought he did.

Seems like Thor could teach an awful lot
of us about ourselves, and worse

appears to have
done, so.

Sin List Update

I'm a glutton for PUNISHMENT.
But only because I love correction.
But only since I can get so little of it!
For years I got it all the time,
and grew by leaps missed and bounds
erected, and so pleased and thriving
in learning how to come correct.
So thin on the ground these days,
so scarce. Correction
You have to sniff it up
and around, and deep
between and try to lap
it and get SMACKED

for trying. "Trying to lap ME?
Stay on the track, Captain America!
Your shortcuts aren't enhanced"
It's a sin. Too
much.

Pride, for preference, I take
in something other than myself,
which would be weird. My self
is the thing geeking out
like a spaz of wonder at
all these other things!
Proud of that? I'd be indignant
to think so, it's an embarrassment
of riches I'm proud of, and they are not

my riches! For the richest part,
I'm just proud for all whose riches
they are - the skies and air
and every living thing plus
the light-spinning wheels of stars
frozen-frame by our moment of long
slow attention in them. Sin?

Not really. Long as one's pride in them
doesn't grow so big it could come between
you and the infinite, and occlude or eclipse
the infinite. That's all sin is

really.

But pride too big in such things does lead
to

Covetousness, of them. Or
Envy, of those who have them, or possess
attributes of excellence you wish they'd choke on
and die.

Wrath! Is a huge problem but thankfully,
only at ideas, which - disembodied as they are
and incarnate as I am - I can only disembowel
and eviscerate through a mind holding them,
going in through the eye, the ear possibly
with so surgical a katana strike the poor dear
- the idea-victim, who half the time doesn't
even WANT it, turns out - is untouched, unmoved
in the moment. Only comes back later, "Hey!
Remember that idea we were discussing?
I killed it." GOOD

Probably dead for ages in there, you were
playing marionettes, it reminded you of nostalgia,
back in an idyll where believing such things
creeped you out, but in those days, was confused
for comfort. Security.

Sin? No not really. What else? Kevin Spacey
and his damn bloody fingers all over everything

GREED!

Hahaha well. Perhaps a touch, for the things I'm
all proud for us all getting to know and see
and play and have. Wait, is Greed one? Or am I making
it up in a confusion of others (Envy, Covetousness,

JEALOUSY? Jealousy can't be one. Half these sins
are all the same thing! Somebody making lists
back in the day had a problem. Jealousy

cannot be on the list, it's covered. Surely
Sorry

Pride
Covetousness
LUST - AHA!
Anger - WRATH! AHA!
Gluttony
Envy
SLOTH.

We've covered them all but sloth!

I never used to have sloth, but I seem to have
gotten lazy along the way, though I don't love it
or really place it in an important orbit

between myself and the infinite. Still

I need to watch that one.

Overall, though, it seems I'm covered

the coming fix

What we used to be
is not what we've used
to be.

Where we've come from
is not even close to how
we have finally arrived,

but here we are now.
Whatever we've shaped
and made of ourselves,

in every mood and tone
and cut and size,
in every guise
and drape of cape
and dress, at last
we are finally right.
In the middle of this:

the fix

Everyone has
altogether
accidentally
made up to
fight.

So we all suspect
and guess

from beyond the grave

Everywhere
is beyond some grave,
surely? Look
just look at all
the cemeteries. It would
be good to consider such things,
before it's too late
to heed the stings
as your spirit swells up
with cheap malaise, and
the doctor can't tell you
which or why, but I tell you

now

from beyond
some grave,

you shouldn't have asked
the doctor guy

oh my patience

I have tried all the patience that people have had,
and let me tell you

your patience is bad.
Have you tried my patience? Fizzy! But sweet!
Chug-a-lug up, buttercup

because we have meat. And my patience

pairs perfect with beef. You could not ask
a
better
palate cleanse. I will swig and I'll sip
and I'll smile broad. Are we not

such friends? Could we not

pretend? I have no damn patience at all
for pretense! Unless - are there rules? Game on?

I thought we were sitting here understanding
ourselves! I apologize, dear

I think you won.

Nobody cares

If anyone really wanted to help, they could probably just help.
Help whether you asked for it or not. Far as they know, you not
asking is a cry for help that sounds loud. If they really wanted,

divine what you need

and give it! Not taking no thanks no
for anything but their welcome. No, thanks
you. If they really

wanted

to.

super star dork

I wan-na be
a super star dork
get paid on the stage
in unmarked bills
just to scatter 'em out on the front three
rows - a bribe and a bid,
as priorities go. I would do my Art

people would be "WHUUUT"

Some adorable fart with a great big but
and a bigger what if
and an either/or

you might poke out the left
or the right eye for

People would be "OHHHH"
That was whuut what was
They'd explain it to me

I'd be like Ho
Lee
Sick?
Buzz!
You have just figured out
what that whole bit
meant! If I'd only known

now

I'd have done it then

but with just that touch
of an added doubt

that comes from just knowing
what you're on about.

Cold play

Cold. That was
cold.

Cold as a thrown stone
from the sinlessly sinuous hand of God,
and about as just.

That stone is called earth and look out
it is flung
in an arc curving now
just fair
to smite all of us,

every one.

You got it!
I got it!

I'll meet you there
at a run

abrupt!

If we got here any earlier,
we'd have to make up lies to cover
how we covered so much ground so fast
between two pairs of eyes.

Enter The Debunker

It's high time this whole
Hitler-gunshot-cyanide suicide bunk
got debunked right the straight hell
out of the ostensible bunker
where it occurred. Oh, make no mistake

he was in there
that's where they found him. One look
at the mess and the chief inspector (a Brit
the lads all called "Shirley") said "This

is a little too neat. Too tidy. CLEAN IT UP!"

And they did. And so the case was closed, but

what nobody knows
and what I can't prove
is just what I'm trying

to tell to you.

I did it!

How, you ask? Brilliant question. One of the top five,
including such famously unanswerable others
as "Why?" Why, I invented a conceptual time
machine, of course! In record time, which
(of course) granted just one wish.

And it was this:

Go back to Hitler
find him in time
use the rays of the time wave to
turn him into a baby and KILL HIM
by AGING HIM INTO MIDDLE-AGE
with those very same time-rays! The overspill from the machine's
operation
of my just one wish, which
even way back then were already contracting

Again.

To snap me back to
where I'll be when I get there!

SEE YA! But not - just - yet

I had no time
to make it pretty. In fact
I was in sweats and a stained tee! Ack
du lieber, hand me a Luger or
better yet, lager.

Anyhow, no time for anything else, and
observing middle age didn't seem to be
killing the prick fast enough for my taste, spotting

a too-convenient, tell-tale cyanide pill
and HIS OWN LUGER, which I was even then
whipping - also conveniently! You have no idea
Out of my own jacket! Which

I guess I just told you I wasn't wearing one, but
quantum physics is the bomb. Trust me
sometimes stuff pops in and out - like I was about to myself!

Case in point.

I felt it, the one-time-familiar easy-peezy
queasy shimmer and clench closing in, my pocket
of swollen universe about to COLLAPSE,

- split - and disgorge the change!

I acted so fast fact preceded act, for once. There was
no precedent for what I chose to do (should've saved
the President arguably) Stuffed
that capsule of poison down our bully-boy's gullet!!
and shot him in the head, DELIBERATELY placing

his own Luger. Scrupulously not wiped clean, my prints
on file for all posterity, if anyone picked up on it
or cared to - what're
they gonna do?

Try me?

Try me. I did it. Where were you?

But where was I?

About to begone, task yet half-narrated!

Oh, that where was I. I was

"DELIBERATELY placing his OWN LUGER"
in the WRONG DAMN HAND (whichever one that was, I had to act
fast, no time for tricks and research, but I figured correctly
putting the wrong hand on the right gun could seal the deal - everyone
would be like, "This clown

couldn't even do THAT right")

and shot I him in the head,
three
times.

Wait.
By "this clown" etc., I meant
"This atrocious dickwardly back-ass whack wannabe Germanic
(Austriannic?) hero-mythos-slash comic book supervillain
trope-namer couldn't even kill himself right! He used
the wrong hand guys! Hahahahaha what a chump, look at this,"

oh my and so on.

I wasn't saying they'd be canny
and shrewd enough to spot my involvement,
yet so simultaneously DENSE as to peg ME as

"this clown"

who

"can't do anything right," unbelievably missing the obvious
subtlety of me making Hitler look like the screwup he famously
was anyhow! Hard to miss that one!

And then, job done, well

I collapsed into an overlapping of spacetime
like an infinite puppydog tongue

as was at that point in time, my wont.

And I was back!

Where I belonged.

Wearing a tuxedo.

Holding a sick-ass Walther PPK carved from a Doc
Mart's black boot polished bar of Irish Spring,
and whistling an eerie cross between the tune
from the ad, and a spy theme

that shall remain nameless, but
hauntingly familiar, you know?

All of this is set
to happen in like
ten minutes. I am losing my mind
trying to find where I left my tuxedo,
I haven't even dressed yet! I better hit
the shower, first too

jeez

You CANNOT
show up
to your one-and-only
surprise blind death-date with Hitler
STINKIN'.

It's not done.

So anyway.
Now you know. I left a lot out,
but we'll see how it goes. I really

haven't the time,
you understand.

out of me

I had to get it out of me.
Not 'cause I want help. Deal with it.
Not to apologize, or con
commiseration soft along. Or even
to get sympathy. I have long had
too much in me, I had to get
it out.

That's all.

Don't overthink the suddenness
of fading crack a tick ago, and

oh

it

is

the

BALL! WHAT FORE
It's coming in
so slow? My reflexes is must just
kicking in! I'm thinking clean, connected
thoughts much faster than the nerve impulse
can reach my limb!

quick quick! jerk up to catch
as catch has once or twice been known
to do - or, failing that, to block

think fast! Just duck! No - does it quack?
SMACK! NO! OW! OH MY EYE! My orbital

knocked into space
from downward blow
past Asian paper-lantern
glow

oh what a world
oh what a waste.
I guess you know
I didn't
uh,
MEANT
to smack high arc to face, I just
I meant

I had to get
it out of me!

To go someplace. Who knows!

I never meant the moon
come back
I'm all alone eight billion
almost strong

on perfect day
that breaks again, again without
the tune you hum. Your body
does, from every cell
you spring. You sprung.

you were my astronaut,

I never meant
to put you on the pad
I launched you from

I hate
this hat. To wear
black hat ball cap, but man.

I am the villain
of the piece. Who knew? Why did

no one tell me?

I miss,
I bless,
at least you are
so far from me
we're each released.

A threat no more, I can't
hurt you, nor and/or me
the way we used to do,
without (apparently)
either of us noticing.

Was I so blind to never see?
Or you so mute, or me again
so deaf? I thought

we loved us. But
in retrospect now
history suggests

enough of hating it to flee.
I guess we did our best.
It must have been more bad
than I have ever seen, or

ever known. I did not see
or know at all. And

that

is why I dropped the ball.
It's on me now. And always was

I only couldn't tell, until
I got it out of me. I guess.
Don't fret (or care, my love)
that space

freed up inside
will never be
to let.

delight in anger

It is not enough, o dispassionate one.
Equanimity, evenness, measured pace
even at the marathon sprint you run
- with never a hair up your
out of place, it is not.

Enough. Though you crow delight
in wonder and curious interest, and true
- you are never bored, were you?
And here! There has been no doubt
at your so-sincere - you protest,
and in fact any fool can see that
clear.

Why do you pout?

It is not enough. Insufficient use
of emotion placed over the ample
and rational juice of your good
and sufficient cause. Reason alone
above all without any flaws, and feeling
above even that. Over it. And

meaning

all through. Like some infinite
rakishly jaunty-cocked
angle-knocked hat! A cleverly-botched
counterfeit - pretty bad, and
so true, it seems government-done!
For reasons like that alone,

accepted all over

by

everyone.

Pleased? Proud? Delighted, eh? Perhaps?
Your sweet trick? Has lost its way? No sham
- but so surely a con
no one buys. Or takes
so much as a snatch
of that puppy-dog stuff
all toad, snail and wag
tucked between your legs.
Never buys, only begs
to differ, or oftener:
simply for more. Like that. Your sighs
always just their size. Encore!
Certainly not paid for, though
or worn. Like new,
your suits and fresh
pieces, ensembles tried on,
unbespoke, but so fit!
So praised - adorn wardrobes
- curiosity cabinets built
in and for unusual ways. No,
nobody buys, and they pay

even less. And they pay for it.

As you surely could guess. Freely-given
is easy gain to freely-ignore. While you cheer
and you weep, in the stands, turned out
for all those
you love, so much faith you doubt
they could possibly lose, and they DO
- all those peeps who you'd love to keep
so very well. But you can't, loved one.

So you weep. It's a funny and rum
sort of punch in the teeth.
Through catastrophe eyes you can see,
see? See all you like
-it-or-not. Right smack on the field, and
you don't like it much. What you see
all the yield of what
you have not even done. Never once, even
told-you-so'd any, in sum or parts. As a hole
goes deep - just look at the score. They will not
climb their way out of this once more. It's as if

you have not the wit
to know, even so plain, rudimentary tack
as I-told-you-so. Which everyone sticks!
And does not stick out, but yes,
you have not the wit. Or the brevity
- tell you that much! Through your yells
and your whoops slip sigh and groan,
you bemoan "SEE?
See!" WHY do we!

DO that.

Do we kill and we force and we poison
ourselves dumb ways for fun, to show
comfort and home and trust, by the way
we bite and stab? Knowing these little
arch familiarities
are not enemy-stuff, but for loved ones?
Just ask dad! Or. Mom! Sis, bro and wife
ask anyone's cousin who took their own
life that is why this is why we do these
things! To show we know
you
are so strong
you could fly without wings

Or is it a fact we can't help
ourselves - or
for that matter, anyone? Oh I eee,
oh I owe

humanity so. The debt that I stand in
is six feet thick, and no fun
to account for my lack
of interest therein. And I'm one
inch short to see out of it.
Good thing I'm not lying down!
I'd fit! Dasn't anyone SEE,
see?

The some better way to play in and out
through it, and not care who'd win
if the game were fair, or even
if we were game for rules? Have I been
not clear on the whole true dare? There's a way
That
clearly
does work, and could go? Don't they SEE?

See, no. They don't.

Never will. Since you can't. You do not
persuade.
You do not
convince. Not enough. Your play

has no practice in it. The fact
that you do not try does convict
of sincerity. And they judge you just
so, but would you take the word
of so stupid a con, even ex? FOR FREE?
Of course you would. But would they?
Still yes. Entertainment value
you can only guess. Of the thing
you've made
of yourself - you insist,
or at least you DO
only use just about half
of the risk. Of the it. Of
potential's clue. Of that frightful,
distorting, infurious stuff - you are right

to emotionally rue. You must feel

more than that! For sure. You must

bring it all. To delight

in a world so horrible hard

is unreasonable, unless

you see clear to
score deep rents with a force
you deplore, and find it in you

to

delight

in

wrath. In anger, a frolic
In pity
In hate
- a full-bore hard-partying
pageant parade, with one giant and lonely
balloon animal - a giraffe, dragged behind
in a tumbled deflate. With smart barricades
from the public fund. With punch
and with pie you will grow
to hate you can have
and eat, too. And they all will believe! then

coming from you

catch up or bust, or blush

I'm going to catch up, I say. I missed
a couple of years' worth of every day. For what?
For this. To have

to catch up. To get
to try. I am blessed

by my empty cup. No, I don't look
back

now, I look

rather ahead

hovering shoulders
above the crowd, and
probably dead. Still
walking the talk, though

stumbling well as I stutter
and putt with my nine-iron drive.

Have I ever been less
than just this much vibrantly
beating and breathing alive? Barely,

a couple of times. Laid bare
I admit now in memory - back when we all
wore clothes. But stripped bare, though,
as I now recall.

It's easier to recover that way
from the fall.
With
everyone natural,
all on a level of dignity

that would make us blush, or
one of us! Me,

I tremble to trust,
and mumble
to hush.

Trailing off (the right way?)
up the path where I lost

my rush.

"What For"

Are you totally out of your gourd?
I don't claim you are. I don't say
"you are" but you are so far out
of my gourd, you have left behind
the Kingdom Of Vegetables and hung
out a shingle in Fungal Realms as
- to my eye and tongue - the

wrong kind of shroom. Don't piss cream
into a soup cup and tell me "Wha's up!"

I know wha's up. Let me tell you what

for.

Howcome? Why? Because, my tart
sweet bitter little salty friend,
your sour taste in inference
implies you do not know. Indicates

you wouldn't know what for
if what five and what three
doubled up on you in the STREET
and tried to pound it into you! And I assure you

if I were walking by and saw so uneven a contest,
I'd dive in without hesitation. Try to help!

You'd deserve it for the dumb look you give!

A look I will not take askance - from you
or anyone, hey. It's your look. Give it,
work it. Take it back to the shop, maybe
the new ones this year are purrin', and frankly

yours ain't winning any contests. Are you out
OF GOURDS, generally? You, so loudly claiming
greengrocer status, freshest delicious stuff
in town to be had at your stall, where you stall endlessly
monkeying up signs with unnecessarily-places apostrophes
and scare quotes like a stereotype? Such as

"BOO! GODS' DEAD!" - Freedreek Vilhelm "The Neetch" Finklesburg

...all in vainglorious hopes of distracting notice from the emptiness
of the bins, shelves and - distracting notice indeed! Take your sign

down! Wheel that empty cart away and quit stalling.

What,
do you suppose that sign signifies, to the hungry public,
about your wares? Simple. You must be Simon! And no effin' buddy
is going to take your say on what constitutes a gourd, when clearly

your'e "fresh" out. There.

That outta the way, I will commence.

To tell you what for.

"What For."

antiscience discovery

The discovery
of antiscience, heralded
in drips and drabs
by drips and drab-dressed
gents and lads, just to impress
the ladies' nads,
did not impress them. Not a whit

No hair out-of-place, not-
one-bit more measurably,
favorably disposed. Or - a lass!
Displayed. Nope
sorry, nope.
Not so much
as a change in clothes.
The antiscience blokes

arose

and walked out of the hall. Protest
was not their style, or policy - but
make-and-take exception was, and
guess what they did then.

Protest! Dear me. Good job

guys! You sure
proved you,
cuz.

Just cuz. Because you had to, praps?

There's no way else
to cop the Nobel Prize, or
make equivalence
in some great ringing-bells
award you fake, inaugurate,
and proud-announce, and give,
and take, and covet. Handle
all around, and - prize,

for what it is you-say about,

and claim
as-good,
but false.

Such prize does not mean
what you claim
you think
it was.

It takes more balls
and fewer brains than anyone
should (publicly) admit

to halve by measured use
of un- and mis- and ab-
plus this
and that.

There's something loose
way up inside that place
where you don't mind

but call it one,
the pressure builds
just one toot more

before you splat.

up the very imagination

I am the neologian!
Neologer, some say.
Diviner of ROD.
Divider of SENSE.
Dinstincter of orifice
and sphincter, alike
and between - the TAINT,
if you will,
'pon and ALL UP YUH,
language! Some scoff!

Some carp and quibble!

Some moan in denial of their very
JEALOUS THEY DIDN'T THINK OF FIRST, but
- with a broad, slurring gesture I dismiss
all of these, and they are seized
by brute remorse and sorrow, or worse - dragged
kicking and wailing and gnashing BACK -
BACK to the very imagination

from whence I deduce they came. Denial
would be paranoid in so peculiar a case. Yes,
I admit it.

I deny the very idea.

An idea that can or wouldn't be better put
than in words such as flip and flit
to the nonce, for the moment's need
- SHOULD be denied. New words

or none! Is our cry. Whom
shall say "otherwise"? or even "INDEED."
when meanwhile declared some time ago
those words were already quite passe?

Not I.

You mistake your man, mon soor.
Go back to the top and try reading again,
to be sure.

This day was from the months deduced

30 days halve September, therefore:
Sep
Tem
Ber
...must count
twenty days per syllable
in full amount. 'Twas one September
Sixty-first, November
with horror observed
it must have only been
so-called
because it 'Vembered not at all
Oct
Toe
Brr,
reduced and squeezed
to one full day and night
had sneezed, and blew

it out

of misery.

December wrapped the body up
and slapped a label on: "To: From"
and "WARNING: Do Not Open
Me"

and no one did that year. This day
was from the months deduced

not to be
eh?