Under a Dim December Sun   Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Since this is a very short post, I dedicating the whole thing to myself, me, all about me, old and new.

Photos are from downtown on dim day in December.

Since it's all about Me, I'll  skip the redundancy of saying so again (and again and again).

***mistaking a thing's name for its thingness

***post-it-notes (07-07)

***first, separate Jesus from the Christ

***loose coins rolling on the floor at midnight


***you can't see the tree until you've see the forest


***so who's the poet now (X2)

 ***hully gully

***too much time of Facebook

***I understand the concept of aging

***random ponderables while Bella pees on her favorite tree 

***where things went wrong

***lunatics - a short morning inventory

***I can fly,  I can fly

***as I pay my dues

***notes from a grounded witchdoctor

***better than the 3,438 rerun (unless Ginger gets naked)

A friend sent me a very interesting piece by a Zen  monk. Trying to find my own words for his lesson,  I came up  with this.

mistaking a thing's name for its thingness

the Zen master speaks
of names
and the naming of things
and how the naming of things
is a function of the world
and not  the thing

how by naming
we seek to  catalog differences
between things that are all the same,
coming from the same place
when their existence begins, going
to the same place when it ends...

a tree might be a tree, he says,
but it is also a cat and a rock and
a droplet of water and even a lion named
Cecil, a name beyond a name,  but still
a tree and a rock and a cat and a droplet
of water, and the sun is the moon
and the moon is the star and the star
is you and you are me
and we are with all the rest
all things that be, that have been, that will
be, and all our naming does not change
the essence of all things which is
the same as all things of all things...

be proud...

for your are not that tiny, disposable thing
your parents named you, you are more, bigger,
part of all as you are part of your parents
and their parents and the ox that  pulled
their  wagon  through the rock-strewn
steppes  of Patagonia...

be  proud...

for you  are much more than  the blinded world
has  named you...

In July, 2007, I thought it might be fun to write  tiny poems that you might find on a  post-it note.

post-it notes  (07-07)

small dogs
at heels
with tiny
and sharp
little teeth


pitty pat
little baby
fresh from
the bath


this is like
a note
I would pass
when I was
in fits of


I love
in little
flashes of
sticky note


crown murmurs
in a large room
of stories
into random
word pieces


if you find this
I was
of you
way back

Continuing to consider the monk's lesson and where it takes me.

first, separate Jesus from the Christ

for we are creatures of memories,even  though many are only remembered in our dreams, they are never lost in the common consciousness that flows like a river through our genes, the over-soul, repository of all the memories of our  kind and before our kind.


separate Jesus from the Christ

for while there was only one

there were multiple manifestations
of the Christ before him

from the ancient Egyptians
a thousand years before

the Hebrew Christ
to the  Buddha and the Hindu Krishna

to the Romans and Greeks, all
with stories so detailed in their tracking

each to the other
from virgin birth and a star

that leads to way, to the slaughter
of the innocents by order of an evil ruler,

to death and resurrection
and everything in between

so much that cannot be explained  as coincidence
and must be something else

a story, perhaps,
like all the stories that remain a part

of our Jungian archetypes, our
collective unconscious, our collective

unconscious memories that  suggest
explanations for all the stories

that frightened us to sleep as children,
ancestral memories that memorialize in tales

passed from generation to generation
for hundreds of  thousands of years

reality remembered and embroidered
and made epic

by the artists and poets
of the caves

and the campfire
story-tellers, history

as it could only remembered
and told through art

suggesting  that there  was some time
and somewhere

a true creature that became a dragon
and a bridge troll and chariots in the sky

and somewhere
some time a first Christ

the original from some primordial time
who through retelling in different times

and different places  became, for out time
and our place, the Jesus some celebrate each Sunday...

Here's another collection of short pieces, these  from 2008 and not as short as those from 2007.

loose coins rolling on the floor at midnight

I do
things sometimes
to get back
to where
there is no getting
back to

a part of my mind
to accept  this
no  matter
how  many times
and how many ways
I try to explain it


I watched
a dance troupe
a very sensual

of  their bodies
these young women


so often
I get a chance
to exercise the skills
essential  to my everyday life
for many years, now  long  past

like stretching
after too long in a too-soft chair
it just
so damn good


I mean how in
the world
could anyone with more than  half a brain
for that Arizona  fossil
and his Alaska pony girl

I mean
the choice
this time
is a no-brainer

people I know
who  are quite intelligent
and knowledgeable of the world
are going to do just that

what is it that moves them,
that causes them to ignore the irrationality
of the action
they intend to  take
in a race
between the tired and discredited past
and a promising future

would anyone  bet on the past

I am


it sometimes
to me, usually way
late, like tonight,
that I really did
make of fool of myself

and I think,
I won't do that again

knowing  for


of the
I  hold responsible
for the pool of anger
still shimmering in a corner
of my gut, a rage I expect to carry
with me to my grave, pled guilty today
to a misdemeanor count of political corruption
with a  $10,000 fine and I  feed on his humiliation
but it is not enough  for it should have been a felony
and someone else will pay the fine just as someone else
has  always paid the price of his  corruption
just as I  did and so many
more I know


so so sweet
when incomplete

I will sleep

I seem to be stuck on a  philosophical bent this week. I'll get  over it, but until I  do, here's another one.


classical Hindus and Buddhists believe
is an elevator that can take
you up or down,
on your karma, that is,
the number of gold  stars
you accrue with  the Over-looker
that over-sees all, or maybe
the black marks also seen, so that
a crow with black marks cannot expect
to  be the peacock next time around
awhile a worm with gold stars cold become
the early bird that catches the worm
that is the aforementioned crow
paying its dues in worm-life...

of  course,
in our modern New Age way
we need fear none of that
since we are progressive people
who do not abide with back-sliding
so no matter that our black marks
might fill pages of the Over-looker's  journal,
our version of reincarnation is an elevator
that only goes up, because our
Over-looker, misunderstanding his
role, prefers to over-look, not over-see,
meaning we will be the bird
forced to return to it's previous worm-state
because we live in an age of second chances...

...an third chances and fourth chances and
in karma terms an eternal line-up of chances
with the worst that might happen being reincarnation-
in-place which means  that an ass will forever
an ass be, which is good news for asses
like Donald Trump who will again and again
be as they have always been and why
when you think about it would such fortunate
asses want to accumulate gold  stars which
might raise them from their Trumpness
into the higher  levels of a poor but honest monk
at the pinnacle of enlightenment whose penthouse
is a rock  atop a cold hard mountain and whose limo
is a bony-backed donkey and whose feasts are
squirrel stew and porridge in a broken bowl -

I see little incentive to collect gold  stars
in that scenario...

perhaps we would be better people
if we returned to the old ways,
understanding that our next stop might be
with brother worm and sister slug
if we don't mind our ways and pile up
some good karma-credits while the piling time
is at  hand

and the new Donald, a scrawny dog following
behind a hobo pushing a shopping cart down
Mal Paso Avenue, the hobo's cart
full of his treasury of old  newspapers
and aluminum  cans and maybe a lesson
or two for shrunken Donald
as well...

This morning meditation from 2010.

you can't see the tree until you've seen the forest

the dark
was unusually dark
this morning

and the dogs didn't bark
and, with the birds unwilling
to commit,

the only sound
was the grumble of a diesel  engine
idling several blocks

and a chilled wind
down my spine

like icy fingers on a piano,
Mussorgsky, his
melancholy chords

cold and foreboding
as the great gate opens slowly,
so slowly...

this is not what I meant
to  do  this morning...

I meant
to write this morning
about a thought I had last night

about trees

about how you can never imagine
the fullness
of a single tree

until you have seen
a forest
and understand

that a  single tree
can never be a single tree
like a man or a woman

can never be a single
man or woman,
like all  of us, tree  or man

or woman
are always a part of
of the greater collection

of our kind, that each of us,
woman or man or tree
alone in our solitude is but

an approximation of  the perfection
for  which
the universe strives...

but this morning,
with dark too dark and quiet too quiet
and chill winds at the beginning

of summer day
has sidetracked me,
led me back

to the closed loop
of me
and the aloneness of me

in a discombobulated
like an  embattled tree

facing stiff winds
and a flat and lonely

a  tree
without the comfort
of knowing

every tree
is a forest,  interrupted
but pending

Here's a memory poem written last week.


finished my military
and back after four years
to finish my education
at Southwest Texas State University
with my dog Sam
in a tiny trailer on the Blanco River
living poor
on the GI Bill
eating pinto beans
drinking Lone Star
watching snakes and gray-skinned
river cows
bask in the dark
watching Sam chase
though the woods and high
grass meadows
great leaps
like an African gazelle
to follow the movements
of her prey
through the grass

me writing
staying up all night
beneath a fluid sea
of hill country
my first concentrated
effort at writing

drinking Lone Star
beside my tiny trailer
eating pinto beans watching snakes
and river cows
and  the diamond field
of stars
staying up all night
writing poetry
drinking Lone Star

being poor
in a free kind of way

This if from 2011. I include the lengthy explanation I posted with the poem then and again now.

so who's the poet now (X2)

This requires an explanation:

 Poet Alex Stolis (who some here know) is always writing, always trying something different,
producing chapbooks the way most of us produce poems. He allows me to use his chapbooks (in their entirety) in "Here and Now." For his latest "something different," Alex wrote two chapbooks, same title, similar inspiration, at the same time. His model was the many alternate takes you can get from many musicians. There are as many alternate takes of Beatles songs produced by the Beatles as part of their creative process, for example, as there are Beatles songs times 10. His double-chapbook will be in my next blog.

Anyway, the idea appealed to me, reminding me that you never get the final truth from a poem, only the truth of the moment, leaving me to wondering how it might be to look at the truth of an old poem and find a new truth in a new  poem based on the same original inspiration. I'm not exactly sure what that means but I tried it. The difference between Alex and me is that he spoke his truths simultaneously; I tried to do it with a four-year gap between.

so  who's the poet now (December 2007)

given that the origins
of poetry
lie around campfires
in preliterate societies
it's not possible to argue
that poetry
as a performance art
is not a revival
of the truest
and most ancient
of poetic traditions

buy why then, do
I so miss the
architecture of words
arranged on a page
when I hear a poem
performed by a master
of the art
and why do I feel the
integrity of my words
wen performance
exploits them for sound
and mood rather than
image and meaning?

could it be that
what I do
in managing lines
and breaks
and shapes
and forms is
not poetry at all,
of industrial-age
bondage to the
of movable type

so who's the poet now (alternate take - December, 2011

say that a poem
is not the word spoken
or the word printed or written
in some orderly form
designated as poetic by the fashion
of the time; go instead
to the image the words, however
presented are meant to provoke
and find the poetry direct
in the vision, images in the air
of real space and time, transmitted
through your senses to that part
of your mind  that dwells among
the visual cues and clues of the world,
the de-randomized pieces
that combine to form a picture
that means an emotion, visions
that fire chemical reactions that
push  electronic jabs to our frontal
cortex to create context
within which emotions form, think
of poetry as transcending work,
internal visions of the poet going directly
to an external vision to be seen
and shared

(the most beautiful poem
I've ever experienced, a French short film
of horses, a herd of horses, running
through fields of high  grass. the beauty
of their flesh, and their muscled bodies, and the sweat
blown from their nostrils, and the steam, too, from
their mouths and nostrils, the internal heat
of  their great bodies under  great exertion blown
into cold air, and the colors of their coats,
and the grace of their great running
leaps over high grasses and shallow waterways -
the most beautiful poem I've ever experienced
and not a word was seen,
not a word was spoken - because no words,
written or spoken could match
the image direct)

think of poetry as visions
transmitted through some visual media
like the screen of your local cinema...

think of a future  poetry
transmitted directly into your dreams...

think of the day when dreams
are the ultimate poetry
and  poets the ultimate dram

so who will be the poets

Another memory poem from last week, even older  memories this time, 1962.

hully gully

I had a girl friend
who did the hully gully
and it was sexy

long legs
skirt flying
to silk pantie
hips shaking

and it made me
very happy

but it was right after high school
and I wasn't gone 
three months
before she took up with

my former best friend
and I was mad at first
but then decided, correctly
as it turned out

that she wasn't the only hully
in the gully
so I wished them the worst
and moved on...


I was thinking about
thinking about

her doing the hully gully 
and how sexy it was

and how it made me
a lot happier
when I thought she was doing
it for

I wrote this in 2012. If anything, with another political campaign starting (do they ever stop), it is becoming even worse. I've finally begun to fight back, unfriending people on the left and right whose stupidity near makes my head explode. That would mostly be on the left since "friends" on the right largely unfriended me several years ago. In the minds of some, truth is a deadly weapon.

too  much time on Facebook

too much time
on Facebook...

my god, the
lies and lies and lies -
what chance for the future
does a culture have
when facts become lies
created for political
when up is down
if it suits your  purpose,
when black is white
and a partisan can blame the
tragic depletion
of white
on political  opponents

what do we do
when facts are captured
by possessive pronouns,
"my facts" versus "your facts,"
when facts are presumed
to take sides,
and by god, when they don't
take the right side,
we'll just toss them out,
make some new ones that better serve us...

how can we survive in a world
where people can
so  hate
that they blind themselves to all conflicting truth
and find pride in their ignorance,
like people who so hate rain
they will not
acknowledge the rising waters; people
who would rather
than admit the wet...


this morning
too much time on Facebook
where the inmates,
having overpowered their institutional
roam free
and unfettered in fantasies of their own creation

if this is the future
I'm against

Another from last week. I'm not sure what  brought this to mind, but here it is.

I understand the concept of aging

we lived behind the high school football field
when I was a kid,
the high wooden bleachers
were right outside out back gate
and from the time I was five or six
I would climb the back of the bleachers,
climbing from one crossbeam to another
without the slightest fear
of falling...

years later I did a little rock climbing
in New Mexico, climbing using small depressions
in the rock cliffs for hand and foot holds,
repelling down the sheer face of canyon walls,
loving the challenge of the  ascent
and the freedom of the controlled descending fall

then on one more difficult than usual climb
where at one point, contrary to all natural instincts
that tell you to hug the cliff like it was your mother,
the climber had to lean back away from the cliff surface
and grab a ledge overhead and swing out and over
and it was at that point that the climber
ahead of me lost his hold and began to fall

our climbs were belayed by  ropes braced
at the top  so the climber did not fall,  just
far  enough to knock me off my hold
and send me falling also...

like the first climber, I did not fall far before
the rope caught me, but it was far enough
that from that moment, the helpless sense
of falling was imprinted over all the better
memories of challenge and freedom, becoming
after all these years an overpowering sense
of vertigo, so that even on a two-step foot stool
changing a light bulb I have to have something
to hold on to or I can't do it...

you would think that as we grow older
all the fears of our youth would fade...

but it seems the opposite,
like my fear of heights that has grown over the years
to the point of obsession, to the point that my stomach
lurches if I stand too close to a large window
in a tall building, like my mother
who had this same fear of heights, taking her
one autumn vacation to fulfill a dream of visiting
the Grand Canyon, then, when getting there
finding she was so  fearful she could not get out of the
car and look...

when I was younger I didn't understand what I know now,
that  the older we get the more captive we are to our memories
and especially those memories that frighten us...

I think of all the things I won't do, can't do, now that once
were a joy and I begin to feel I have aged into a person
barely half what I was before...

so I look in the mirror in the morning and see the lines
that seem to etch deeper every day
and I see the body in slow collapse and the aching hips
and the knees that struggle to lift me from my chair
and I understand the concept of aging, but
it is memories from my life before that frighten me
now and convince me it is real...

This poem is from  2013, dog walking, the dog sniffs  but doesn't talk, leaving me with a lot of time for thinking.

random ponderables while Bella pees on her favorite tree

my dog
makes children
and pretty girls smile

and makes old women
go coochie coo


a man dies
on TV
and I think of my dad,
dead going on 34 years now

how could that be...

dead at 65,
what a young age
that seems now
for a man to
be dying


young women
of my own youth
were such a mystery,
silken creatures
from a different universe...

young women today,
so lean and beautiful
and smart and strong,
different creatures
even than

I smile and I speak
to them,
the cute old man

how far I imagine I have


women have evolved
it seems to me
to be even better, to be even more mystical
and mysterious than they were before


I don't know about young me,
dull and seemingly thick

I'm not impressed


at our drive-in
include small dog biscuits
with receipts if they see
a dog in your car

my dog
is very smart,
knows this, moves to the front seat,
presses her head against the
to make sure she is seen


I am past the age
where I don't want to act my age

I see old men now
trying so hard to be the studly gents
they imagine they were in their

I'm quite happy
being old and slow
and have no illusions
I was any more enhanced
in days long ago...

too  long in my life
I have been a

(except sometimes, on
a slow day,
I am the hero in a mid-afternoon
dream, and the girl is
and she wants me to do
all manner of speak-able things
to her ripe and luscious

then I wake
and am only sometimes
and only temporarily


likes country music,
blue grass
with banjo and fiddle
the best, but with a soft spot
for Johnny Cash and Merle...

she sings along in the car
on long afternoons, especially when driving
through the desert -
she's a Marty Robbins dog
in the desert
and Patsy Cline on fresh-scented
country roads...

we share our taste in
music, but
I'm of better voice...

but what can I say, she's
still a darn good

The next piece is from my first book, Seven Beats a Second, published in 2005, the only book I have done in print. It's still available on Amazon. I followed this book seven eBooks available anywhere eBooks are sold. The  poem was written probably in the early 2000s - I don't remember.

where things went wrong

gets more screwy every day

and I don't like it

I  liked it better 
when I didn't have to play dodge'em
on the highway
with all the beam-me-up-Scotties
with cell  phones in their ears

I liked it better
when the crazy person on the sidewalk
talking into the air
really was a crazy person talking into the air
and not a dweeb yuppie
talking to his dweebette girlfriend
on some kind of phone thing too small
for me to  even see

I like it better when me were hard
and women were soft and cars had fins
and the president was smarter than the
average dumb-ass drunk at the corner bar

I liked it better
when Desi loved Lucy
and Gorgeous George was the meanest guy
in TV wrestling

I liked it better
when a microwave
was what your  girlfriend did
when she was across the room  with her

I liked it better
when I was young

a real up-and-comer

and the pretty girl on the park bench
was waiting for me

This is a morning poem from 2014.

lunatics - a short morning  inventory

ovoid moon
behind a lacy curtain
of thin,translucent clouds...


a lunatic bird
sings all alone
at the roundabout...


a lone cowboy
limps in through the door

sharp-toed boots
a hat with
a silver band,
and a mustache
thick and

settles slowly
in his chair, like a good cowboy
takes off his hat
and stores it under his chair

like the bird
he would prefer
to be alone, howling
at the night sky
as it slips away to another

he welcomes the ovoid moon
with a smile
and a sip
of morning sarsaparilla...


hard-faced woman
across the room,once a beauty,
now a mask of cold indifference,
glares at her eggs,
has no interest in an ovoid moon
even as it stirs the tide
of her discontent...


fella in the corner booth,
on his laptop keyboard
as  his coffee gets cold

another solitary lunatic,
obsessed with
and ovoid moons

Well, it happened again. I fell to thinking.

About the  picture on the left. It's the cover for my first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind. I thought I'd save some money by doing the cover myself. Cheap enough, but I ended up with a cover without a book title. Went to the pros after that and got some great covers, as you seen here. I supplied the photos; the pros did the work.

I can fly, I can fly

according to Kierkegaard
there are two kinds of truth...

objective truth which is true
whether the individual knows about it
or believes it or not

and subjective truth, a truth
that can be true to you without
necessarily being true to your

we are in an age
when more than ever before
we are divided by the two

there are those
who believe facts are facts and
others who believe facts are what
want them to be...

the problem,
according to Kierkegaard
is that objective truth
is based on facts decided by a group
which means the group who  chose the "facts"
to prove global warming and the group
who chose the "facts" to prove Obama was born
in Kenya each have a claim to objective truth,
both becoming, in Kierkegaard's opinion,
simply truth filtered through the prism of power,
the largest, most powerful group
in any setting establishing the truth of things...

this was not to Kierkegaard's liking

he preferred subjective truth, the truth as determined
by individuals based on their own observed "facts" - so that
each of us can know our own truth, free to disregard
the truth of any group that does not agree with us...

the truth of gravity applies only to those of us
who believe it, the rest, well, truth is free
and subjective truth is freedom...

the wisdom of any individual superior
to the wisdom of any group
as Kierkegaard saw it...

I'm of mixed opinion...

my mind sets me against the
Tinkerbell persuasion,
seeing most subjective truth to be
the fairy dust creation of individual desire
and that, if you want to understand people
and the world, you have to set aside
your subjective wishes and look to the
discernible, logical and demonstrable
facts of what is...

but that is only my objective fact-dependent

but my heart knows that all facts
are never known and that
the subjective truth of desire must
prevail, trust in the truthful heart,
even as Tinkerbell had to trust that Peter
could fly without knowing how or why

"I can fly, I can fly"

sometimes that's truth

It's over 100 degrees outside right now. Given that, it's hard to  feel sorry for the whiny fella in this poem from January this year.

as I  pay my dues

the sun,
lost in the dark for three weeks,
returns in the early morn,
the previous night's rain hangs
in droplets on brown leaves late fallen
like diamonds flung across a muddy field

umbrellas at sidewalk restaurants
are unfurled, welcoming
the sun lovers to  return, to have their lattes
and everything bagels outside, saved
from another day in dank and dark rooms...

just for one day, this winter, long in coming,
is not over, all of us due for a one-day reprieve

the cold, dark will return tomorrow
and stay near past when we can stand


I am inside
and can only see the sun through my window
as I pay the price of winter
walking in the cold with my dog,
head uncovered, rain on my shoulders,
pretending to be again the invincible I once was sure I  could be,
paying the price then as I pay my dues
today as well...

suffering  again the fool's fever
and chills...

I read this next piece at a reading last Friday. It's a good performance piece and though I'm a lousy performer, I read it anyway as a lesson to young poets who might be at the reading. I wrote the thing in 1969, one of my earliest efforts, but it didn't get published until 1999, after my 30 year hiatus from writing, by Avant Garde Times, a journal so far ahead of its time that it disappeared about six months later.

The lesson, as I explained it to the young poets - never throw anything away. You never know.

notes from a grounded witchdoctor

rosy glow
     rosy glow
breaks the light
into silken clouds
of floating pink
into the expanding
corners of my pulsating room
                  tiny universe
too big
      too much
falling back falling back
afraid of reaching

give me room!


                                    no longer afraid

jumping for the clouds
into the ever expanding
corners of my pulsating room

clouds of taffy

                                              pulling me to the

phosphorescent walls quake and tile
throwing off  slippery shadows
that pool at the floor
         eat at the floor
              and leap at me
          with the deliberate
    of the unconquerable tide
                then turn golden
                    then red
                    at my feet
the angry lobster redness
            the infectious angry redness
                colors my feet
                and crawls up my let


     pulling at my body
     pulling me to a high

until I stand atop a hill

               in the shade of a tree
               a wide-spreading tree

while birds sing from the tree
         and I understand the song
         and I try to sing along
but the birds stop
and leave me singing
              alone              alone

and a bird lunges from the tree
stands on the ground
                   becomes a shadow  figure
                                 a man dressed in black
                                 a man with no
                                                         black space
                     where a face should be
                    the thing
                          the  shadow faceless thing
                          begins to cry

and birds come from the trees
       and land on the faceless man's shoulders
                              as crows
                        great black crows
                        evil black crows
that sit on the  phantasmal shoulders
                              and cry...

the ground collapses beneath me
the hill  flattens beneath me
and I'm in a valley
and the hill is behind me
             and the figure
             and the crows
stand on the hill and cry
so far above me
as the hill shimmers
through the heat of the valley
                     and disappears

and I am alone in the valley
        in the dust of the valley
                in the hot hot dust of the valley

as it grows hotter and hotter
        in the valley
and I'm lying naked
        in the boiling mud
               of the valley...

people stand around me
       men and women without faces
        black spaces where faces
            ought to be
men and women in long black skirts that drag in the mud

they laugh at me

the great ghastly specters
from a tribal past
                                           they laugh at me...

I press my cracked lips into the mud
and try to suck for water
and burn my face and my lips and tongue
            in the mud
                  the mud
                             not mud
                                           the mud
                                                         not mud
                                            wet grass
                                 dew-wet  grass
                   cool  dew-wet grass

I run my tongue over the grass
          bite into the grass
          chew on its coolness
lie on my back
under the cool fresh sky
                           and stretch out my arms
                           and pull handfuls of grass
                           and throw them at the sun
                           and let the grass rain back on me

                                                 I catch it with my body

I craw beneath
the grass and meadow flowers
and roots and working earthworms
                          and look up  to watch the sun
                          in its interminable agony
                                       of circling

                                                    ever  circling

and I watch the sun
through the roots
and the grass and crawling insects
                                                       from behind the petals
                                                       of meadow flower



                                                                                                   s w o  o  p i n g
     clawing at my eyes
               burning at  my eyes
searing my eyes and cheeks
                                             and lips
                                             and screaming tongue

I close my eyes...

and I'm in a room
                   a small  room
                   a dark room
                   a black room
                                           a room without light but for a small dot
and on
in one corner of the room

and the dot grows

it crashes toward me

leaves me
                in a lonely light

washes over me

leaves me in a lonely light alone
         alone now

        alone now
 lying on my floor

linoleum cold against my cheek

I turn on my back
                           alone on the floor

and sleep

Here's a report on a reading I did last week to a  small (I  prefer select) group.

better than the 3,438th rerun (unless Ginger gets naked)

I did a reading
last night

to a small (I prefer the word,
select) group

and I wore my reading

while they add an inch

to my height, more important,
they add 6 to 8 inches to my ego

and ego's pretty darn

if you're going
to write something

and call it poetry
and expect people with more pressing

on their mind

to sit quietly
and maybe even listen

and be appropriately amazed
or at least decide it's

what the heck
better than the 3,438th rerun

of Gilligan's Island
and boy does that old Skipper

ever get mad at Gilligan
even though I don't think

the Skipper is much of a skipper
and it's probably his fault the Minnow

got lost even though he always blames
it on Gilligan

and I think everyone on the island
including that sweet Mary Jane understands

exactly how she got stuck on this island
with that horny professor

who mainly has the hots for Ginger
and couldn't care less about

that sweet Mary Ann
but you know you have to have

some kind of drama
even on a previously deserted island

or you'll never get to 3,438 reruns
unless Ginger takes off her clothes and swims

naked in Gilligan's Lagoon
but this is family TV from a time when

families didn't have sex
and I'm glad of that because

if Ginger had gone swimming naked
in Gilligan's Lagoon

any chance I might have of even a small audience
(I prefer select) willing to sit and listen

to me reading mu poetry
even in my reading boots

could be described in
just three words

"fat chance,

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer

                                                                  Peace in our Time

at 9:14 AM Anonymous Anonymous said...

again photos magnificent- you are NOT selling yr most valuable asset- but that's yr business- somebody probably told rimbaud to concentrate more on poetry- san antonio almost seems like a venice w that river- i feel so sad for texas tho- states like texas, missouri-

now on to the capcha

i prefer the ones where you have to "Identify all photos w a cat in it"- I would have- "identify all photos that show human body p;arts in formaldyhyde

at 9:17 AM Blogger davideberhardt said...

I am sort of a Robinson Jeffers poet- man has befouled beautiful nature- "Shine perishing republic". Man, not woman, is raping nature- sticking his big dik into everything and pissing away the future. Repent o ye sinners.

prophet dave (i am descended from Joseph Smith, btw)

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