Painting thoughts inside my head
Picking pockets from the day ahead
I get lost in space
Thoughts caught on my daily walk
Strolling around my mind
How much of me - gets left behind?
How much will be left to find?
Looking through me to another time
Eyes that knew me, past their prime
Keeping fit, bit by bit
And thinking it all through
Where to go and what to do
Looking out for something new
Another story with a better end
A different outcome, a better blend.
But here’s the sting; if I could
I wouldn’t change a single thing.

And while the world is changing around us
Orange clouds are taking over the sky
Souls of people are rising up to the heavens while yet another sunset is painting the sky.
Every day loved ones die
Meeting of spirits will soon happen while Earthlings cry.
Story of all our lives.


Shell  ✨🐚

Found and lost at once,
immediate
inbetweenity, here, not there
in a way, in the air, expired

whoosh, shush and remember
the wonder lost,
when the boy who wished never
to grow old
with this now to
remain the time of our lives, when
not knowing keeps us safe,
and our guides into ever on go, ever
be
holding, ever eyewise-touching
the face of God,
big g.

Time and joy, Edwardian Gay Hebrew
repressed as zeitgeist calling for
"lovely, wonderfull thoughts"

infantile omnipotence, 700 million light
geotimed timid old ideas

The author imagines the same vision
one way, plain, unencoded

white wolves in a walnut tree
freud interpretted the unconscious wish source

ah, it was the witnessing of *** enacted, eh?
I think we may have granted Herr Freud
more credence than guesses are often allowed.

Is this not the same social act as when
any knowledge is claimed by faith in the answer
accepted

inner being, outer shown, reflective seeing
the world we see, we agree to see,
this is that, you see,
I say, literally living in word alone, a nobody

founding one fair-made tale, of favors owned, shrinking

death in the brothers wish, where the dead man
I recall as always handsome, though I never knew him.

I was such a liar, so ready to say true a not-ever-true

Having no success that makes history,
hold no certain truth that certainly made me
choose
to wish to
be an author of the faith I pour out

clap your hands if you believe
in fair
ways found oddly marked in the peace
found in old

"better to have had less ambition"

Thinking as a child, not as the old man, watching
slight smile
forming the setting for the scene, making much

of being a little boy, once, as a story
sifted from another, seeping into solution.

Yes the spirit of my time has been my friend,
for, most of the ways I wished to learn,
now are in my grasp, well within my reach, mine
and that of my Artistical Intuitive Muse,
ever aiming my morning at the mercy on the edge
of one day alone
with you,

lost in youth's untutored virginity
or something, impatient, yes, I'd wait… perfect moments
are rare,
but do occur, if your aim is close..

~
Storms make grey the sea
And erode the surface of the shore

Cold resentful icebergs
Outside my window
A field of sinking liquid caskets
Closing in on me

I hear the sound
Of toy pianos underwater
Remnants of their music keep
Washing up on achromatic beaches

Songs that made love shine
Have fallen into shipwreck
A missing charter's rusted hull
Casts the one color heaven allows

Storms make grey the sea
And erode the stages of the sun
~

Lost lines, resisted in the night,
conscious resistance in the night,

not sleeping, so
not dreaming,
certain this
is real.

Now it is day, and I call the thieves,
again, all ye, all ye outs, inscape
the outer darkness, pitch me your plot,
show me what you got,

series of forties. Days and Nights,
rain and fasting, days and years,

forty steps and forty miles
forty winks and forty minutes,

ten fingers clapping four hands.

all nonsense compared
to the work of forty thieves.
We had something adding up,
before surrendering to sleep.

The universe was taking shape,
it made all the sense in the world,

for a while.

Time set, 9:17 and the first direct
sunlight pierces the oak and dapples my room,

as I have no complaints,
I have no room to boast
of tuffing my way past losing

anything, from where I sit this morning,
life on this pilgrimage, if we agree,
pilgrimage is
not religion, not new age of water
and fire working in tandem to make us

serve the dams and serve the fires,
drive the engines and prune the trees,
shear the sheep and **** the calves,
and milk the cows,
grind the grains and knead the dough,

think in tiny sticky sensory arrays pointing
soft from sharp and hard, feeling fit
loose or tight,
these bonds,

this time, … my frosty morning,
not cold enough for a fire,
I’ll use that consumption knack,
thus loosing
another half-dozen Keurig cups,
for the seals and whales who are

building an unsinkable plastic refuge
for the polar bears to use,
after the Northwest Passage is open year round.

9:31…

Beyond the palisade,
out yonder,
over yonder, where the line is drawn
on the wall of our valley,
where each high water winter left a line,

bearing witness, to the saying,
" surely we live on the wreck of a world"

and surely it was no work of our own,
especially,
now, pinch a little thought, any point
that feels
just right, a child laughing - random that.
Stretch it out.
If this happens to be forty lines long,
abstracted, pulled into your time from mine,
that’s fine at 9:42, I have two minutes to make it so.
Or let it go. And go see what is so funny
at the breakfast table.

Tells the story of the heart grown heavy
Knowing all this sweetness would not last
Soon would be memory.  The great hopes
We had would become a life long ago. Yes
We know always knew it would end but still
For that alone we threw our whole selves; all
Our youth into a sweet sad song of our time
As precious as it was mortal.  Famous long ago
Yes we knew still know it could not last..
Such a sweet refrain was our time Too beautiful
To be.  The best of times; the worst it was our
Time.  A time like all times a sweet sad song


For You My Beloved

Year after year
--at daylight savings--
he kept moving his clock backward,
but never forward,
until he wound-up in the wrong century.

He then slept in masks,
his dreams repeatedly
disbanding and reforming,
as if in someone else's show,
but it was his hallucinating set-list, for sure.

He lived at the call of the void,
feeding off peppermint sticks
and clusters of chokeberry,
to help ease the pressure.

One phantom summer,
he read The Joy of Euthanasia
from cover-to-cover, over and over,
until he could recite death.

He poured his heart
into his new work
as an artist of tacenda,
--yes, he kept a lid on it.

And when the pretty young bees
buzzed about underneath
their brazen parasols,
he'd smile up at the sun
for her complicit glow:
the warmest days
always drew them out to him,
like honey on the tongue.

Now naysayers may keep
him out of Canton,
but one day, like most serial killers,
they will name a school after him
and his hijinks.