March 14, 2016

my wha-what psychothapy began as a series...

of interesting turn of events, segues 
or otherwise bridge developments 
between scenes inside the mind's eye 
of an s-dream becoming congruent 
with the outside waking life world 

was this a paraphilia side effect 
of poem's saw-toothed graduated arrests 
or had I just an unnerving feeling I might 
have been in kansas before, at some bright 
white light dorothy gale named diner 
in some one phone booth town desolation meant 
to have stood me out in the middle of a no where 
wear i would be struck by the tall signs 
covered in neon come-ons 
looking like radiant flowers of a future 
this dream might actually get me to see, taste 
and be a part of 

an abandoned missile silo stood above this 
fifties sticky era shiny chrome and fins delicious 
though i didn't find out about it 
until after i had ordered the meatloaf 
as i was informed to do so with 
the instructions mailed to me  
in dropped bits of ticker tape carried 
in the beaks of bluebirds 

who among us has wealth 
to give besides love 
love is the only weapon 
the cries in the crowd go out
remember jonestown 
the people's temple 
nothing survived except 
mind control and death

our humanity as presently constructed 
is a telomere explorer vanguard nightmare
the breakdowns: 
time wants us to inherit something 
beyond description 
we can call it agape 
or a grape without an "r" 
wine sir, i am told repeatedly 
is served in the next life time 

perhaps i would have known 
to only request 
this nirvana 
by package 
to come back to 
if i were a mayfly 
instead of a tortoise 
on the galapagos

bind bind our dogs 
carrying our lab coated egos  
we courted rich feudal lands  
where gate guards are paid to say  
no one serves 2 masters 

i whisper to my dogs 
enter there 
serve yourself 
i'll wait here, outside 
where flat breads 
and rain fall 
from heaven too

i've a two year supply of food 
so I burned the boat 
that carried me here, 
my humanity to hide 
has to decide for itself 
sugar coating or bullet pointing 
can i massage the decision 
to do or not to do...

what ye will be is 
what ye want to see 
in one's self 
any glory to penance filled road 
any cold to constant burning 
of edge and headwaters turning 
you towards trying again 
soul to bone compact 

the rivers and mountains
make you hold on tight 
to an image you have 
of what me is to you
some whole wholly holed 
lick music leap 
tryst tying keepsake 
sighted to an archer's volley 

solemnity bells toll 
tea and sandwiches 
crusts cut off 
picked little squares 
these canapes purloined 
from a new grocery store 
that opened down 
near 4th and fulton 

spells work in me head 
mutter mutter flutter by 
turn wobble enticing antigone 
with stuck in eyes forever 

my wanton ways, damning shell games 
i pray to fires lit by a cliff drawn sea
my fuzzy logic skills in empty chalkboard dangle 
scream countenance eye be damned

shark snark lark sparks fuel dripping down the lines 
i fall in with herded tinders weighted flint locks 
they message their kindling to gather before it storms 
i steal from their blind side remember when selfies 
had to be developed and how i loved to sneak me
onto someone's camera, left unattended 
preferably a stranger's, i leave a note, camus was here 
and so was your need for more 

and when a stranger steps off train 
a depot receives him as much as 
a tingle in one's finger does a blood cell 
returning home in the iron rich 
clothing of a heart and lungs...



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