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...

The ends we'll share

we've been sharing a house on this island,
but we've been living apart for a while, and
the birds, they've been telling me what's the matter;
it's your wife, tell her to cool off, jump in the shower.

could it be that one of these
depressions is upon us?
could it be that one of these
threatened our perception?
could it be that one of these just might be the one to be
the beginning
the beginning of depression

we've been hearing a frown for the past few weeks
and we've talked all the dead ends right through our cheeks
we've asked all the right questions and why why not?
let's call it quits and shake our thoughts and hands.

could it be that one of these
depressions is upon us?
could it be that one of these
threatened our perception?
could it be that one of these just might be the one to be
the beginning
the beginning of depression

wait a second.
where do you think
you are going?
what do you think
you are doing?

wait a second, young man.
what do you think
you are doing?
and just where do you think
you are going alone?

Twirl

remember when your mother
cooked spaghetti for the family?

ill bet you have fond
memories of it...

slick your fork into the pasta
with its pointed mirror pricks, and
meet it to the rusty
veggies, russet
colored meats.
dig and twirl and
use a napkin.
never been so neat.
hesitate to take a drink,
marvel at the comedy, the chuckle of the ice
and how it washes out the kinks that
every noodle noodle noodle ties.

and if ever you can really finish-

let them fall your clanky silverware.
let them drain your throat the drooling pasta bits.
let them coat your brain the bits and fall into abyss.
allow yourself unbuckled belts and bellies barely bare.
afforded you, aren't you so happy, the pleasure to stay there
and pat your belly once or twice, to sleep against the chair!

Off a beaten night

Speak easy to me today. My brain is bricked with tired mortar from academic poundings and scholarly surroundings, loose and hard like a crashed-up lighthouse, but vulnerable too, like day-past-ripe bananas in a monkey fist. Why am I like this? Sometimes it's as easy to explain as a baby's gripe - he is hungry, go and feed him. Other times it's much more complicated, as when new knowledge weighs me down - like so much ice on aching branches, or startled salt water on the 2nd floor beach resort.
(Mother nature can be irresponsibly sad.)
What do I even know anymore? And where has feeling got me? I struggle either to accept the knowledge, or to wait for the temporary sense it makes to fade, the way cumbersome images from nightmares fade, or the melancholic way that marvelous, sleepy fantasies always fade into awake.

...my brain is wobbling; it's hard to listen. So speak easy to me.

Arizona and the Coyotes

Suzy left her porch light on for me
So's I wouldn't step on top of a cactus tree.
She saved me lots of time, and just, well, gee...
That's why I love her, that's why I love my suzy.

In Arizona we can build a castle from the sand
Just as we did long ago.
In Arizona we can howl with the c o y o t e s.
At midnight when the sun is dipped so low.

Suzy is the wisp of smoke lit up by the blue of the moon.
Suzy is the warmth, and I the month of June.

the cat of a whisker tickled my face and bubbled me out of a dream

Here she is in front, pawing at my morning breath. Her nose flickers once, she seconds no thought to the visible stench. Where was I just? Too groggy to tell. My tired eyes are blinking forth and back between an eager face-full of catty stomach screams and fading scenes from minute-old REM-cycle sleep. I'm rusty-eyed and crusted, primed to rest my sorry machine. I feel her shifting densely over the sheets. I sweep her sideways, and all her fur, as dust bins would and brooms would too the dust from dirty floors. Go lap from the toilet or contract disease! Do what you do whilst I'm neck deep in Zs. Impossible. She scratch my sheets, and noises of her struggle hammer on my ears. She again appears.

Back for more, are you? Oh what's the use. You're no worse than the first knife of daylight to my eyes. Get off my face already. Let's eat breakfast together.

Indiscriminate Optimism

Gather the troops of your mind.
We are on patrol tonight!

There is new territory to be forged, men.
They are calling on us again.
We cannot stay here.

I know it's early,
the sun's barely up.
These times of days can
really bring out the bitterness,
the senselessness,
the brutality of it all.

But don't let that deter you.
You have everything
you need.

Ahead are the measurements,
the tools and rulers!
Ahead are your stones and sticks,
Your bones and muscles,
Your wit and size
Your skin and eyes!
Everything you need.

You know just as I know,
the dark battled blanket of earth
that bears on us ahead.
Give it no breadth
Give it berth.

Blood and guts.
Mud and rusty guns.
Other people's armies.
Slivers and cracks of light.

Peer through the prism.
I am with you there.
Open your eyes.
Gather your weaponsm, mes freres,
And keep to indiscriminate optimism!

call without response

it's simple.
i love you.
even when my face
fades from memory,
and it will;
even while you speed through
your younger years;
even when my name
spills out the back
of your brain.
i love you.

and i wonder
today,
like all other days,
how are you doing?

alone in a new age

here's my computer.
majestic, isn't she?
and my stereo,
look at the speakers,
they really blast.
my blinds are electric
venetian. press this
button. see?
(sunlight is nicer
when your venetian
blinds open at
the touch of a button.)
my telephone here is
connected to the internet.
it downloads everything
always. i am
so connected.
i own three satellites.
i make my own personal
weather predictions
with them. pretty neat,
i know.

you know what i've
never done, though?
i've never plucked
the peddle of a flower
and smelled it
for its flower fragrance,
as they call it.
i'd love to do that.

Swift Ballerina

She's the envy of
Marbled Men. She's
a swift ballerina. She is
whirring and spinning
the history of man with
her artful arms and limbs.
She can tell you,
just by twirling her hair,
who won at Bastogne,
the location of Alpha Centauri,
Romeo's ultimate desires,
all of it.
She engineers the universe,
dropping out of perfection's
rigid verse as she feels,
just because she can.
She can give you the time.
You will want all of it.
She can give you the space.
You will want none of it.
But she only lasts as
long as everything
else is beautiful. Then,
when the grayness swallows
you again, you will have to dream
her up once more.

The Way I Saw It

A Sweet Tea porch introduced
A dawn-dusk amber shift
from day to night:
"How ya doin?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"What'll it be?"
"Oh, a little off the top
if you don't mind."
This place, a place
where the meaning
of the flash
from the first
firefly seen through
southern living lenses,
and deep southern senses,
is a front porch
in Tennessee
where the rarest of girls named Ava Lee
had me over for Sweet Tea
and on her porch she offered me a hair cut.
I obliged, and from the porch I
duly noted the transformation: the view,
from the porch, of golden grass
and glassy dew unfold -
The bold bright gold of
old dead grass flattened
out by the coming shade
into a nondescript
rectangular mass.

Then the first firefly blinked, and
we both stopped for a
warm sip of sweet tea.
Her finger traced my ear,
and brushed my neck.

Haiku (though not my own)

This made me laugh when I heard it the first time. Maybe it will make you laugh.



Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Bark!

It was dark and wet on my way back from the mailbox. My mind was equally bogged down by muddy, vacant thoughts. My ragged shoes sucked to the mud and gravel concoction that was my driveway while I thumbed through previous tenant's junk mail. Inspiration, I was certain, had abandoned me. I hadn't thought of anything remotely clever in months. Everything seemed grey and smudgy, different iterations of the same thing, as if originality had spread itself too thin. Still sucking along the driveway I noticed my neighbor's bedroom light flicked on, and I could see his fat silhouette through the glowing venetians. I paused to watch his bedtime ritual. First he unclipped his watch and placed it delicately on his bedside table, must be expensive. Then he took the remote and blinked on the TV. Next, he sat on the edge of his bed and lifted each foot separately to slough off his socks. Then he stood up and exited the scene briefly, and when he came back he was wearing a large shirt and underwear. He pulled the covers back, and climbed into bed. Right on cue a four legged figure followed suit, making a palate out of a small corner of the bed. The light flicked off and all was dark except the blue glare of the television. It was then I had a funny thought.


There was a man who was raised in a basement by wild dogs. They were rough dogs with the raw experience of oppression and starvation, whose barks crashed like toppling poker tables, whose whimpers sounded like sad sirens, and whose chains clanked against a cold, hard floor. The man spoke in grunts, growls, sighs and pants. He ate what the dogs ate - dusty scraps and soggy bread, rodents, whatever was around. He walked on all fours, and because of it his knuckles were rough and swollen . He was naked, and he routinely licked his entire body clean. He used the same corner the other dogs used to relieve himself. His hair was dry and brittle, his skin was scarred and bruised. He did not appear to be aware at all that he was, in fact, a human. It was a rather convincing performance.



One night, the abusers left the surface hatch open. The dogs and the dogman looked at each other in a peculiarly humanoid way, as if to ask one another, "Do we dare?" The dogman gazed back at the opening. Star pricks and dark branches were all that were visible from the basement. Without another thought the dogman took one step closer to the exit. He ascended the staircase one step at a time, and as he conquered each step he became slowly more upright, until finally he was standing erect, with his upper half in the world, and his lower half in the basement. His companions worshipped from below. He gave them a look of transcendent solace before he took one final step onto the lawn. It was the first time he had seen grass. He bent down to smell it. To him it was as if the crust of the planet were a lush bouquet. He pressed his face into the grass for several seconds, sniffing and tasting. If he had known the word, he would have thought, "Bliss," to himself. Then he heard a shuffle from the side of the house. He jumped and turned in the direction of the noise. There was a man. It was the abuser. He had rage in his eyes. The dogman stood tall, displaying his proud stature, but also shamed to be of the same shape and size as his abuser. He quickly dropped this notion, and bolted for the abuser. Unprepared for an attack, the abuser shielded himself instinctively, but there was no aiding him. The dogman ravaged the abuser. He bit, tore, punched, slashed and kicked him within an inch of his life. The fight was loud and brief, but not brief enough. He caused so much raucous that his comrades crept out of the basement to see what was the matter. As soon as they realized what was going on, they joined in on the fun. The dogs slunk over to him, grinning a sinister grin, and ate into him without mercy. The dogman stepped back, and watched his comrades dismantle the body. He wiped his mouth clean of blood, bent down to smell the grass again, and then laid on his back to gaze at the stars for the first time in his life. Then he heard another noise.
The dogman jumped and turned even quicker than before. He could see another man walking toward the house next door. His shoes were making a sticky sucking sound. He fumbled through some papers, then reached into his pocket and jingled out his keys. He selected the key to the house and reached for the lock, but hesitated at the sound of a bark the size of a St. Bernard's woof. In a moment, the man imagined his neighbor, who he'd never seen before, barebacked and on the back porch with a beer and a beer belly woofing away the night like a mad man. A crazy dogman.

"What a funny thought," he thinks.

Haiku

Who wants to do this?
I know you want to do this.
Rub my shoulders, please.

Never Went to War

Any movie with gunfire these days makes me laugh. I laugh because people who've only heard the shot of a gun in movies have no idea what one really sounds like. I remember standing in the field, dug deep in my foxhole, trying not to catch stray gunfire. I got this image in my head, it was like a giant blanket the size of a hill floated down over the enemy and muted their rifles. It was like popcorn popping in a cloth bag. There was no crack like you hear in the movies. The sound of it was quick to start and quicker to end. A bit closer and the sonic quality of the shot takes on a completely new texture. Usually there's an echo; in the field, though, the sound bangs to infinity and never comes back. No sparks or flashes, nothing cute like that. If you're in a wooded area, or a city, the sound from the contact the bullet makes will answer the call from the shot. Pow...Shunk. Right into the wall, or the tree, or whatever is around you. You dare not look. From up close, though, the crack of a gun goes on forever in your ears, as if concert speakers at full volume clicked on the sound of static noise. The ring that follows soon leads, and the sound of the static leaves, but the squeal from the aftermath sustains. Flat, unchanging, unending. Like a long blade. Then you shoot him back.

T E E T H

The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.

In a dream all it takes is the chomp of your jaw;
On its own the collision of teeth says it all.
Your mouth pours with blood; take a thick plasma gulp -
Of spit and of bits of bloodied teeth and pulp.
You search with your tongue for the one tooth in tact,
But by now they're all holes or they're otherwise hacked.
The sour and salt drinks the back of your throat.
The sanguinary tinge of metal tops the coat.
Thirty-two teeth crack simultaneously,
And from beneath journeys blood unsurreptitiously.
Nerve endings whip about, put up a fight.
They deliver a cold spicy electric bite.
Your mouth oozes syrupy chunks down your neck
Your teeth are destroyed, your mouth is a wreck.
The desperate gurgle and sad try at speech.
The sudden removal of all of your teeth.

The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.

Assortments

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
tables: surrender's sleep alas.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For coffee and flowers,
high speed rainbow chases,
Jupiter and Jazz.

For the bright partition of clouds and
jungle air dark blue by the shade
of a billion canopies.

Or of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's
first,

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old leather, tough and
scarred. Scary barns
at night on farms

For these reasons and more,
including all at once
or either or.

There it is.

The reason to write it down.

Waver or

Don't waver.

Whatever.

If nothing else be clear.

open.

honest.

clean.

Heaven forbid you're

pegged a liar.

I heard you say once

that you didn't like

such and

such. It made you feel

bleh or something.

And now you like such and

such, let's call it baby koalas. 

So what.

The point is you can't take away the past.

You know that.

You already knew that.

Just say what you say and

mean it.

Even if it's something

sideways, like,

"Fetch a mush bag of lemons.

Gather it hither, I have a

special place for it.

The leaf pile! Put the mush bag

next to the leaf pile. That's

where it belongs. Yes,

the leaf pile next to the mush bag."

You lost me at mush bag.

I don't know what that is.

But I guess you were honest.

You were definitely open.

It was a pretty clean thing to say;

it might have had some inunderstandably

complex inference. Maybe.

It is clear in its delivery. Whoever

wants the mush bag is being

precise and direct with his or her words.

But the words in general,

and mush bags in specific?

Chaos.

Chaotic nonsense.

Junk poetry.

Junkyard absurdity.

Inanity.

Now go into the world.

Clone it. Destruct it. Fit

in and out.

I intended to get something 

across to you with this.

When you need help,

read this again in a darker room with a sharp knife in your hand.