unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece

you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,

in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within….                                                 nml

The God People are at the door
loaded off of trucks
where they slept under tarps

Kids, no
I know she looks like Madison's mom
but she's
a God Person now.

God People are at the door
having just walked through
the spiritual car wash,

and they're coming for you,
Barbara.
They want to eat you and leave no tip.

God People are at the door.
Bobby quick go wake up daddy
and tell him
to bring
the Tikka.

Jenny Mechanical is too mecha for the main house
but too human for the tool shed.
She can turn stripped screws, whip up a perfect grilled cheese,
provide power during an outage and mow and mulch while she's at it.
She also dreams of a recharging kiss and poems appear at her fingertips.

Jenny had a little lamb whose fleece was made of synthetic polymer
and everywhere that Jenny went, the lamb was sure to follow her.

See Jenny Mechanical, stopped in the middle of the front yard,
telling her lamb to look at the new leaves with its LED eyes.
She has always been a perfectly average 5 foot 3, can open any jar, pick any lock,
but she is leaking into its faux wool because of something beyond utility.

Jenny Mechanical can eat no fat, nor either any lean
and yet between the two of them she knows her grease from cream.

Still, as Jenny could tell you, mere maintenance is not love
and the poems at her fingertips have diverged from factory settings,
glowing pink
then rose
then lavender
then blue
then indigo
to create from refraction a lovely illusion, a rainbow or so it seems.
___

Birds in migrating flocks and families,
fluttering in black waves,
will fly over our houses,
the dried fields,
and the trees with their sullen faces.
Their sight will lift your mood.
Often we wish to escape the city,
to vanish somewhere, as they do
where it is warm,
where comfort is nearer.
At a waterfall cascading down the cliffs,
women with loosened hair
will circle around,
and like birds,
they will spread their wings.
Simply warmth brings everything to life.

Today I want to read a few pages, listen to Lana Del Rey, or Janis Joplin, or even Nick Cave…
to enjoy what the bright side of the internet offers, and the falling leaves that I will soon witness.
I will wait  autumn is the sweetest season.
The hot, unpleasant, and exhausting summer has finally come to an end.

Is it the longing for the majestic sunset
for the man that can no longer see?
Or is it the ignorance of the colors
for the woman who has never seen?
Is it the ache for the one now left
with only recollection of years
of mother's embrace?
Or is it the emptiness for the orphan
who cannot recall her face?
Is it the loss of the mighty tree
burning as it falls?
Or is it the lack of the tree
that never stood at all?

Into the lofty paradise of a quiet
         mind
                          she goes
Focusing on eternity
     she breathes
     into each silent sphere
             with luminous delight !
Chakra orientation :
              she sits
             like a lotus  on a circular bed
              made of ancient gold and bronze .
Delving deeper than the
                        ocean floor
    inside a cavernous  place  
                         further still than
                God's pitch of stars
Inside this Utopian fairyland
                              of purant truth
                     Shangri-la
        the place of her new existence,
Her very own garden of Eden,
                                    more beautiful than
the promised land.

Neandertal of mortal man
Whose memory did live and span
Through countless generations spun,
portraying you, the only one.
You lived and died, you laughed and cried.

And randomly, you caste about
To find yourself.....your Maker's shout?


Began for thee a tiny mote,
Which grew in increments of hope,
That echo in the empty room
Which died a catatonic boom!


Out of nothing you appeared
A shadow grew and then careered
Spontaneously you simply knew
Correctly when and what, to do....
You lived and died, you laughed and cried.

Brilliant mathematic play,
Prescient in your Makers ' way?

Began for thee a tiny mote,
Which grew in increments of hope,
That echo in the empty room
Which died a catatonic boom!

For centuries you kept the peace,
Restrained the enmities, release.
Lived conjointly well with man
Interbreeding with the plan.....
You lived and died, you laughed and cried.

A patterned engineering day
Which coalesced your Maker's way?

Began for thee a tiny mote,
Which grew in increments of hope,
That echo in the empty room
Which died a catatonic boom!

Then you left, you simply went
As if your energies were spent,
As if the work was now complete
The impetus left at your feet.
You laughed then cried; then finally died.....

The silence in the empty room
Resounded to your Maker's loom!

[email protected]
28 September 2025

The vioce cannot speak
Through tears the heart weeps, gentle
stars, the softest light