haiku

beautifully removed:
the cricket and the oak tree
relax without me

Up in a Down World

There are times,
and I am not sure
how my mind gets there,
when everything looks the same
as everything else.
When solids and liquids
and gases smear into
a common state--
When all colors
are only color,
and all music
is only sound.
When everything around connects.

In a way I live for those times.

There are other times,
just as hard to find,
when everything's distinct.
When every tree stands alone;
every atom singularly whizzes;
every leaf sways its own path to the ground;
everything happens the only way it can.

In a way I live for those times too,
but it feels more like living through.

In another way
I live for curry and rice pudding;
for parties and beautiful women;
for the emotion of happiness,
and the concept of peace;
for stability and sustainability.

I die for life and live for death.

But more and more...

It's looking like...

We may not have to die

at all.

HAIKU 1

I am like a fish
hatched dry into a bird's nest
flopping to my death.

Galore Galore Galore

What are you in waiting
but a bag of bones, impatient
with the lack of care and driven
to another state to live in?

Loneliness it comes
and the driver's never numb
to the void that occupies unbuckled seats
or heavy horns in trafficked streets.

Nostalgia is the freshest scent
from windows cherries come and went.
Ripe or rotted not the same,
the former joy and latter pain.

But great times they do await
(or should I say a place?)
where bags of bones are cherished
and the cherries -- they will never perish.

Hear me out, hear me out.
The shackles are undone!
Come—I’ll tell you all about
the time, the place, the fun!

Although the road is not cement,
the car not made of metal,
it's a place in Mind you never went;
I promise that you'll settle.

Despite my patience golden plated
How I’ve waited waited waited...
You came at last, at last you've come!
A drink, say you, some juice or rum?

It's paradise! Is it not?
Now go tell all your kids
that here on Earth is all we've got,
and Higher Ups cannot forbid

the smells of grass. Smell again,
the fragrance always lasts.
Already you've forgot your sin--
the power of the blanket grass!

Have some more. Have another.
Three and four and five or more!
Tell your friends and mother's brothers
"Galore galore galore!"

Thoughts on Scattered Thoughts

Why is still a good question.
Why X, Why Z, Why me or her,
Because conception is a complex story
lived and told by the storyteller...


The auditory and visual centers of the mind are soft, mucous covered hunks of flesh. As far as the identification of objects, the process of storing and retrieving memory, and the sensations of sound and light are concerned, every experience is cradled in these centers. The way something looks and sounds, as contrasted to what something means, or means to say, is a function of these centers.


The language centers
of the mind
are also soft,
mucous covered
hunks of flesh.
Words, sentence structures,
meaning and the like
are conjured there.
Every thought is
X reaction, and each
Emotion too is
X reaction. There is
no difference. This is where
the story begins.



These two centers ha
ve a converging point.

And where they con
verge is a place per-

haps scientists
are calling the

story
of the


self.


If I told you I was once a man
who'd never killed another man,
who'd never pounded with my
fists against a wall made of bricks
to break through and cinch his throat
in two, would you believe me?
You must.
I am the storyteller.


But during my story I cannot hear you,
and so I have no way to listen.
But if I could, Oh! if I could,
Every word would glisten.
Each a drop of gelid rain,
stuck against a blade.
An orb of crispy liquid --
slippery, yes, but fast against the grade.
Advice, perhaps, to take
would be contained in every drop.
Something which to keep me sane,
ingredients to make a friend pop
right from thin air.



A dream, a fantasy it is to hear you while I live and tell my story. The truth is I would enjoy your feedback. You could tell me when to stop. When enough is enough so I wouldn't trail off forever. And if I did, I'd probably end up somewhere I didn't intend. Somewhere deep in that mucous covered sac. A place to which only accidents can lead the way. Maybe I'd end up telling you a secret? Nothing too personal; I won't lose all sense of censorship. What I'd do is tell you how mysterious you are to me. How I have made something for you, and how it is not a gift. How it is not a gift, but how I still want you to have it. How it is for you and me both really. How the chances are so low that I'll ever know how you feel about it, either because we'll never meet, or because you'll never read my story.
If you think it's sad, it isn't.


I am not lying, I am not lying.
I'm telling you the truth,
or at least so hard I'm trying
despite the shortness of my tooth!

Blossoms of the Mind

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
the future brightens and lights up
my brain with dreams of easy life
and passion-pleased, in place of rigid
nights in chairs with nothing
in my hands and nothing to ensnare.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
a pathway colorizes and greys away
and all at once and all at twice
and all at three times my dreams
collide and thrice the impact rings my ears
with jagged jerks and metallic tension like
iron bars that trap me in or out.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay
at night, I sit and sway beneath
above between the night and day,
the earth and space, and think
this big planet is a pillow and
the stars are strictly night-lights
ever far away.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
to think of her, She Whoever,
and whether she'd find pleasure lying
back and hearing as I whisper
and repeat the words of another
in her ear, "Lay lady lay."

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay...
No! I'd rather not go another day
obeying fingers pointed in
an order straight forward, but to
live with Little People in
my brainmind quarters, quite
literally living in my dreams.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
Wherever upon they'll lay,
I live to change my mind another day.

Two in a Crash

The sound of fading RPMs
is the sound of life driving
off the distance. Below it dips away,
I can see its sails tipping, and
all the flopping limbs from
tiny men go overboard.
The sky sort of shakes up, like
everything kaleidoscopic.
Purple suns have eyes of red, and gold skin.
Red and gold and purple like the
smear of rainbows. Maybe
it was a rainbow, and
not the sun. Maybe I tripped and
fell out of the car in all
that chaos. Maybe my
head is bleeding and I
need medical attention. If this is death,
how wonderful. And if it isn't...