A tide imperceptibly rises,
a sun dies just a little more.
New lamppost starlight
blooms but fails to hide
a carpaccio of night
pounded thin and fried;
autumn thoughts of all sizes
clot in the gut, a bezoar
that might be a bitter cure
for tomorrow's sweeter troubles
which double and then redouble.
Yet even a heart-worn raconteur
reveres leaf-fallen days;
wind rips a brittle baize.

North Texas is a land of storms and in 1970 so was our living room,
and when you're 6 years old you can’t just pick up and leave town.
Your stuck like a fence post in the middle of tornado alley.
The rain is going to come down hard.
The winds may knock you down, cause your heart is a trailer park.
That is just the way it is!
So, you learn to pray and sometimes look the other way,
like the eastern window of an old house.
Then no matter how you try part of it follows you
down the road are pieces of your past.
Like remnants of a tornado’s destruction and you find yourself sitting
back in that same old place even if it is just for a little while.
I look back and I see that 6-year-old sometimes and find she is not that far away.
Just another rain storm away from remembering
what not to say.

Metempsychosis

Monday, August 18, 2025
2:14 PM

Reincarnated ideas that ate our minds, imagine that

influx efluxuation considered, we, as thinkers, thoughts,
thinkers thought some while ago, we think, in spirit, in mind,

formed words, indexed in our own prodigious memories, logical
conclusions in a world of light and shade, both, essentially good,

in the Biblical knowledge, without which his people perish, good

for sure, being caused, fructifying on a tree covered under
the Christian clarification that a good tree cannot bear bad fruit,

tov ra', beautiful adverisity, as Strong's has the Hebrew
under the tree of knowledge of tov' ra, good and evil, KJV wise,

evil means bad, Naughty figs are over ripe and rotting, so it is.

The people among the captives, who were taken for their craft,
the smiths who knew the way of wind in fire, to form steel, ah
the carpenters, knew the way of levers, planes, wheels and cogs

recognize science consciously right used knowing, principle think,

you know, reckon, ye ken, yon and yet, knowing, principle thunk,

Wisdom is the fear of Jehovah-Jirah and all, some say,  
wisdom is the use of knowledge truly with no guiling, that is,
id est, i.e. per se, free
from added adjectives and qualifying catechism quiz results,
Jesus is Lord…

I know a guy who says lord came from Welsh, but
I got an old book what disagrees, Welsh for Lord is Arglwydd

I ask Gemini and accept that I knew more or less what I was getting at,

Saying in your core, truth is lord, requires definite precognition, gotten,
this idea, Your core process, you, being one told

to let this mind be
in you… mindhat wise, imagine, we think as one mind,
with a sorting side and a noticing side, and pattern recognition,
wakes up qwerty guy and we are with Bruno in the ether, here

it is, the mind of God, no inside, no outside, no need to disagree,

what a person is, at its core, who am I, what am I for, is arbitrary,
yeah, Shelly Berman, he told me, I am what I chose, arbitrarily,
I write,
I write like a monk reborn in a certain batch in 1948, ARPA kids,

arbitrary decisions were never part
of our context as A students, in grading school,
with a y for smiths and carpenters after eight D or above years,

graduates from Eighth grade, with me, met me in Bien Hoa, ARPA kids,
- both barely in my class, no shared classes after first grade

both dead now, both died within a mile of Route 66, hmm, hummin'
along wonder if what if did work that once, but, we escaped, got away,

whose memories are treasures,
whose are inescapable hells, just
waiting to be recognized, as one among our we,
guilty as sin, never made sense of as Hamartia y chatta
the few, the brave, the dedicated babes in the 1948 Revival,
Aieee and hohokahm jam Jesus a plenty out at the slabs, 2025

Repent or perish, try those spirits, axemwhachamean, perish?

Ego death, abrupt, sacred and undeniable, just say, come into

my core logic processor open for repair, just say no, or come on in.

Flow, autotelic for some time, core idea in intellect, lecture me later.
Mark paid.
Any debt owed to for or by any, or any redemption
Owed to Giordano Bruno, who went up in flames to inspire me,

is likely erased from history as you recall…

With these eyes that lie,
These mouths that pry,
These hand that cry.
Sing me an unending rebellion of souls.

The morning sun rise without ceremony, as it did, as it will.
Solace ungiven, to weave a tapestry of dreams and desires.
And, in their apathy shown, without mercy, a mirrored visage.
To hoard every treasure of the heart yet dump them all to the fire.

The noon that did come to not give peace nor rest, but tire still.
Within this emptiness there lies an unworthy thought.
"Love" to all that is not me?
But emptiness did make up that place, so empty it shall be.

The evening erupted from the distant skies and did not wake me.
The heart's discontent wavering under pain and distress.
Triangular thoughts are unstable from a fourth perspective.
Where else to turn, if not this unnamed sadness?

The night of nights fallen from the inside outwards, encompasses all.
In quietude the scales cannot balance, cannot decide an end.
He says: "Misery did make me, and misery did wake me.
Goodbye world, if you do not welcome me."
Without another word nor hesitation, the piano halts to stop.

The un-sought-for time implodes from the outside, to not break free.
Unwavering they did make me, and unwavering I am.
What for? And what is to be done?
To seek and keep all things that is not me, yet throw away my skin and flesh and tendons and bones?

The silence ends in piano grief, the lover's dream that rages still.
And light did take me then, to the vestibule's mud,
Weeping about and sinking into the filth that was thought to be deserved.
The silence did end, however.

And once more I wake, to the ceremony of another day.

From birth, a woman dressed in dreams,
awaiting the man
whose touch would discover her hidden notebook,
whose fingers would wander her pages,
fondling each line with tender curiosity.

At last, love arrived
but only for a brief embrace:
not long enough to quench her hunger,
not enough to wipe the dust
from her waiting scroll.

Now the night holds her confessions,
her moans of longing folded into the dark,
her body whispering its ache
to the silence between the stars.

O night, will you grant me peace tonight,
or must I pray the sun never rises?

I watch as you cradle yet another beast
It's tangled fur and muddy face
They would be enough to scare off everyone else
But not you
Oh, not you
You reach out your hand to untangle the strands
To kiss the bared fangs
Because you believe in good
Because it can still be saved
I always wondered how could you be so trusting
To put your palm in the beast's jaw
You'd laugh off my worries
Saying, there's good in every being
You were right
Until you weren't
Oh you sweet fool
All beasts were once pure
But not men
Oh not men
But you didn't know that
Or you did
But you still did what you always have
You still took him in
Offered food, home, love
And that parasite grew
Until even you were not enough to devour
I don't blame you
But you didn't warn anyone
That there's a beast of the worst kind in your house
One that smells like ***** and cheap cigarettes
Oh you didn't
And I've paid for that
That beast tore me apart
When I was only growing
It defiled me
It made me scared
So much we both forgot
One from *****, one from fear
I don't blame you
But you can't save him
Not him
Because you can't save something that doesn't want to be saved
It'll reap your throat out and still ask for more
You can't save a man that ruins you
You can only suffer with him
Until he gets his hands on your niece that's six
Oh how much I wish I didn't stay at your house that night
It was filled with people
But no one noticed
How child's world shatters
And yet
You were never intimidated by any fangs
You always wanted to pet every monster
But you can't save something that kills
What is left pure

the clouds tonight
once white, floating in blue skies
reappear
in the dark, in the light
from a waning moon