let it rain. 7 days, six nights. I don’t care. what it means. dirt clods dissolved and flowing mud. down the drains of circumstance. in the streets dance drops and splashes, goulashes of goblin children, screams and reveries of the trees lashed by wind the moon ppehole through the sky letting in trains of fraiy lights cast upon earth and moving sparks of firefly. streams trun their courses, mountains hold their orurses there is no passage here. not for you, enver for me. I absolve myself to sit by this creek until th e flood waters rises, until the bags beneath my eyes sink to sleep and the world is finally queit as the world can be. At least for me. I don’t want to hear your stories, or your tales or your poems, don’t want to hear what ails you or makes you happy, don’t want your message from creation, just leave me be, hear by my tree. by waters benath my knee as I wade in the shallow currents and look for that damn fish that made a face as me while I was minding my own bisuness and tending my own garden to see what would grow. and found nothing grew in this soul of solidtude but the need to express its silence. kind of counter productive don’t you thing=k? but it assures me, that anything I pursue or try to catch has an oppposite end, so I should be preapred. whatever that means. because it means nothing to me. never did, never will. that’s what I say about it anyway. I hear there are others with other sayings but what good do they do me? like I can carry them in my pockets and pull them out to pay the feery

Velvet Elvis

road hum
car noise
a hotel room banking the freeway
a car parked out front
a dilapidated outpost
never a great destination
only a tiny dutsy stop alongside
a passage to greater things
lizards scramble searching for breakfast
across the lot
A man sips stale coffee, watching a velvet Elvis
through his window yellow portals of gargoyles seep through royal arches
guarding hamburgers of paradise where millions, no
billions, are served
to whom?
who collects these hungry souls, and their chicken nuggets
and family meals
and who doles out plastic toys of smelted dreams
dangling attention moments empty of nutrition
tossing roadside offerings to lizards who nudge it aside to look for living things
scurrying dirt and rock
amidst towering things of tiny consequence and whole worlds spin
and move and cross round invisible to concerns
of larger spheres. So many charts and gravitations!
whirls and crescentations and heliocentric orbitations
circling the most mundane
enveloping the most amazing
hardly even matters a difference
between arcs and jolts of attention
currencies of denomination
paying tithes
to the new church
of latter day mediocrity

correct sequences a=maybe

I am snoozing at the rest stop and when the tires leave the road when the dust fills the sky and the yees of the horned toad are fied in the distance ignoring the boots tramping around it and its home then it’s time to sing the song that sond that we keep in teh back of our minds whose melody made no sense but till we stshed it for the day, this day, when it will carry on the wind into the blue mountains and teh gray sky and not eaven the pearly luminescence of the smothers ed moon wil reaveal even a single note because the frequence=y is so different, like lighg and sound, until ess youve gone digital, abandoned the analog and then you acan meld synethesiass like a pro and perhapds this melding, with all ths colors and sounds and motion and when it brings in the tactile we can have a new cup for a little while, a cup that cn hold new forms of things of thoughts sand make new things but this cup might be for the young for the new for the dispalced, whose cups are alesast half empty so they may benefit from the openiness of receiving… and when we die and when we’re dold and hoepfully on haveppens the correct sequences a=maybe then too our cups will be empties and in that dusty old chiped receptabcle with the faded paint and the lad coatin fro some us we may contain someething we cannot even yet coneive and this is the essence od death


8 of Spirals from the Chrysalis Tarot

sometimes I think about a word, or rather, a word resonates in my mind, collecting from the far corners like a small pond ~ripples of affinity~ touching banks of memory at oblique angles and sometimes things from the depths surface to investigate, look around with somber alien eyes, ill-adapted to the light and then submerge back down to their home somewhere deep inside my home in corners I don’t know how to find

Today feels like the start of another transition, to another place, from this place. To another series of places in that strand of frazzled rope that stretches across my history and tangles with the histories of others. Siblings, family, friends, lovers, enemies, artists, zombies, masters, monsters, singers, poets, thieves, cheats. The corded knots of humanity in their swirls of existence but a node on mine as I on theirs.

dark alleys

a little sniff, frees the mind of smell by enveloping its contents in another one with spaces and dust and crevices untold because a smell cannot be told in words nor can words be sniffed unless, unless, you have a particular kind of nose or particular kind of ears and that is rare, or perhaps not, perhaps we’ve all been cross-wired and that is the norm. It is hard to say, without a tongue, using only my ears, but perhaps that is cross-wired as well. And how do I even know of this thing about crossed wires, and what if it is only the least of the disconnections, the basic form, and there are oh so many many more in towering levels of complexity that make a simple crossed wire almost like sesame street to the esthete mind. but who knows. who cares? this writing, this thinking this a stream of song in the tawdry lines of syntax where meaning seeks to burst free for a moment or wiggle its tail happy to be noticed or enticing to be noticed and what, should I trust where it leads, because I think that words can lead to places we don’t want to go can take us, steal us, kidnap us bludgeon us down alleys of thoughts with the thugs of feeling closing in as it darkens and narrows and we are mugged of our lightness of being and left to struggle our way back to normalcy with scars with stories with a certain deadness of eye that accumulates like heavy metal in the soul when we catch any ride that words offer and steal the essence of the moment in the gutters of strange sludge in the city like gotham without batman or maybe we are all batmen and batwomen crusading our inner streets with no purpose other than the rigid mores we have been imprinted with by that show and that commercial and that sermon and that belief…