mental dysplasia

hip dysplasia–no presentation,
but mental dysplasia, endemic
to this population.
intractably folded thought.

fulcrum

there is room for everyone
to sit at this fulcrum.
they only need to cease
leveraging themselves.

same as before

the trees almost dance,
having dressed for this occasion.
each crevice and gnarl show evidence
of the recent painting spree.
yet everything is still
trying to look as if it were
the same as before.

slippery

I reach deep for words,
picking up a few by
their wiggling tails.
slippery, they scamper and hide.

***

conciseness
though, is an art.
nothing in pithy form.

reciprocal load

folds–
something bent onto itself,
implying a hidden sameness.
consider, not a hidden
’something else’–perhaps as in a joint
or union, or as something merely covered.
no, a hidden sameness.
this is a key secret of our topological universe.

***

if this language transports
delusion, perhaps it carries
another reciprocal load
as well, like dust on trousers,
not easily brushed off.

piece of tail

some are able to seize the neck,
I will gladly settle for a piece of tail
when It rushes out of one’s mind
toward the ocean of itself.

***

you are trying to open a door
that exists only conceptually.
either be rid of conceptions,
or increase your conceptual
knob twisting ability.
(the latter has not found much success
but is great entertainment
year after year.)

once you walk through,
you will seem no different
and still must shower regularly.

in another language

how is it that few clocks agree on the time?
is it that now is so elusive to mark?
outwardly, and apparently, accept that time
perhaps, is not your friend, and
must be rather forcibly subdued.
inwardly, ‘time–what a preposterous idea!’
(or, ‘come again, time, you say? how quaint….’)
the third approach:.
find the place where it becomes extraneous.
not friend nor foe, not even measured.

***

I have no comprehension of words.
at this point  I am riding a bicycle,
downhill, flinging out
newspapers,
in another language.

these words, word themselves

these words are meant
to be true,
but are solely mythologies
pointing back to themselves.
rip them apart,
discover the ancient pointing, itself.

***

all self referencing,
this parody we find ourselves.
each comment loosed 
seeds passersby to adjust and correct.
none seeing the repeated comedy
that makes their hidden parts
laugh behind their I’s.

***

are you trying to get something
or are you trying to recognize something you have?
these words, word themselves.
the result, doesn’t care.

no skirt to raise

 ***     

wherever you turn,
there it all is.
a world fully painted
by your notice.
(yet the high cost of non seductive strippers
is rarely included.)

***

once again, a simple story:
immersed in self, drowning
in attraction, primed by
rare conceptions–
so very ready.

and still surprised.

***

where is this I reach into?
the universe is naked,
no skirt to raise,
no arcane signs deciphered.

pungent private parts.

***

detail

these tenuous, brown leaves
hanging down
sometimes block my passage
towards their trunk.

hah. foolish striving.
the roots, I see now, already
under my feet!

***

vast ocean.
kneel down close.
our pond laps the shore
with mighty waves–
dancing water bug.

***

for once, a photograph
would miss the detail
now showing.

***

eraseable facts

zen attacks mind with impenetrable phrases.
mind counter attacks with divisive agreement.
bet on mind, but look for doubt.
its uncertainties are most profitable.

you have no choice but to carry a sword,
it’s the casual swinging it around
that does the most harm.
(keep those doubts intact).

***

he would be matter of fact
about what occurred.
–matter now glowing,
–facts erased from his slate.

***

my recent words, in their loose spilling,
haphazardly rubbed the bottle.
the genie is out, threeing all wishes.
yet I have none.

***

voids not found must be dug

I open my eyes in the dark,
seeing nothing.
I open my eyes into the dark,
seeing the darkness.
abandon no view, however dim.
darkness is only without light,
not without experience.

***

the breeze is sticky now,
and looks to pick up bits and pieces
along the way.
 
don’t debate your fate,
the kite rises propitiously.
its only direction,
is away.

***

indeed, now is enjoined
with chance for all. 
the dirt again soft, shovels at hand.
simply this, 
voids not found must be dug.

cheap fungibility

the blessed peacemaker drinking packing a colt 45—
it is amazing how few complaints are heard after a few spent shells.
ah, the compliant mind.
you think it’s all illusion; then, here comes a bullet–
immediacy in a full metal jacket. 
Lao would agree (when he wasn’t ducking).

***

he insisted on changing his previous behavior.
saying he needed to get an early start on the challenge before him now.
the secret, he said, lay in finding cheap fungibility.

***

my doors open,
all welcomed
on these pages.
no i.d.’s checked,
no garb rejected.
somersaults only.
required.***

my local immediacy

this morning my mirror translated
the soundless words I tried to speak.
the rawness was surprising.
yet off-times language falls short, and
drags the tongue out of position.
thus reflection must serve to deliver,
albeit, on first bounce.
separation not by moment, but by distance.
I lean near to catch the faint expressions.

***

I take myself alive,
not wanting to mess the carpet.
surrounded on all sides,
the elusive parts yield
to a persistent watchfulness.
no quarter paid, none taken.

***

no bondage without agreement–
but the real kicker
is the annual renewal.

***

joyous pressure to be found everywhere.
what is this very line to be? whence does it come?
I want to say forged in spiritual fire.
more true to admit,
found down in my local immediacy.

discarded understanding

who can compare these pleasures–
an equanimity that satiates desire,
to bouncing caress of another?
one’s hardness immersed, surrounded,
and softened

***

why the discomforts of aging and cessation?
thought wields the sharp spear of destruction.
be assured, though; the tip is plowing the spring fields.

***

understanding very unbalanced.
once attained, valued above all.
once understood, simply discarded.

***

enjoy the musings–simple plays
condensed to mere juxtaposition.
for those who need more,
I offer the ink itself.
DNA left behind,
on mind’s edge.

***

            beautiful poetry is groomed and tightly knit
            so not even a comma will slip in unbidden.
            but that of a useful sort sloppily is beyond containment,
            indicating blunt parallels and broad enticements. 
            though free, it counsels you to pay full price.

            ***

off kiltering piquancy

mind on vacation.
the spigot left on.
who will clean up this mess
when it returns?

*** 
he found the oil
for his garden gate.
all is 3D again….
only exclamations
could be added.

***
the sky again
comes to me,
and leaves its clouds
behind.

***

 

 

 

  

the sliding door
mirrors this patio swing.
that could be me there,
if I were given to reflection.

***

sometime piquancy will
off kilter the mind just enough,
without drawing requisite blood
for a backlash.
small daggers doing
the job of a scimitar.

a simple click

sitting at my desk.
the universe winked,
and my desk abruptly appeared,
in meaningless transparency.

a simple click, the lock still
while infinite earthen tumblers
turned, releasing all.

***

words barely float,
left behind in their chemical soup.
all is well without
modulated breath.

***

tree limb, hovering.
bark, radioactive.
all my carbon
absorbs its glow

***

the blackbirds fly over,
seeking perch, as
I step off mine.

bare naked understanding

everything is dispensed.
everything contained,
ready to be shaken, squeezed, poured, unfolded.
you see how tight this hat is getting?
better to reject all packaging.
bare naked understanding.

***

as a lad, ‘mind you behave’.
some what older, ‘mind your own business’.
then the discovery of mind.
then, mindless moments.
dodging wisdom, few reminders cling.
thoughts drift free.
not even trying,
to mind.

***

he sought to develop his buddy-nature.
one-pointedly focusing on my space.
then a face book fell away, and the net
was freed of his image;
all searches in vain.

***

he uses common bait
to trick and entice the universal
into closer range of his leash.
once again, all difficulties lay
in the holding on.
my big dogs pull and lurch like kittens.

***

intimacy beyond the bed,
caresses of a nature
always surprising.
now life wants in,
under the covers.

***

I have myriad points
to make.
effectively making me,
unpointed and inconsequential.

straight finger remains,
under sleeve.

taking no notice

clever are those who spread the rumor
that nothing you seek is presently wanting.
its correctness is beside the point.
it’s that ‘nothing’ that canards the mind,
and removes the meaning we are addicted to.

***

need a topic?
not hard to find.
ubiquitous teacher of rabbits,
spawn of Life’s libidinous side—
forget overpopulation,
beware the inbreeding of ideas.

***

no cathedral of pines here,
the patio guardians bless only with sap and cones.
the reverent look up.
occasional crashing limbs.

***

distraction always finds the prevailing wind.
concentration barely floats.
he works on his dugout,
slowly gouging a welcome to the waves.
convergence, find your boat shoes!

***

meaning lost on the detour.
hope still dogging,
but losing ground.
as long as we don’t run up
on the set of one of those ‘reality’
shows, we’re ok for now.

***

magnificently built wall.
every crack ably repaired.
all rust burnished.
all mortar repointed.
all foundations stabilized.
will last forever,
an impediment to all….

my sparrow takes no notice

***

my wheelbarrow always filled.
nature enjoys free rides.
lower spine never complains,
only the arms, from holding back.

***

old pond.
too long since
the frog splashed.

the wetness lingers.

trough of wet clarity

the secret may be beyond words,
but don’t abandon your tongue—
flavor is its second language.

***

wherever you look on this highway,
so much road kill….
tire dodging is a fine art.
better for the dawdling
to face depravation
on the side trails—
events less adjacent,
and impending.

***

our mountain brook
looks only down
and will cut any gorge it must.

why do choices seem to weaken
ones resolve?

***

forget the chills of winter.
I count only springs in this effort.
and only when my buds are
tensiled and bounce back
from careless steps.

***

I breathe the very dirt of this trail,
lungs caked with mud.
sweat moistens all likelihoods,
coughing up clues in my haste.

***

these feeble verses, though lame,
stand firmly in place
on legs of iron.
balance, sometimes in question.

***

an endless striving to come to the point
requires explicit, swallowed yells
directed to the closest standing.

***

become the rainmaker.
this local parched earth policy
dries all sprouting efforts
when a simple borrowing from the sky
will do.
yet, again, the grain is mold-free lately.

this back & forth creates
a fold in our nature.

trough of wet clarity.

***

cuneiform minds

 ”life is alive,” refrained for years.
who has examined so closely
as to check the pulse or mirror the breath
of that obscure being within?

its blood, I hear, is capable of dissolving all questions
foolish enough to approach.
a wordless m.o. beyond a pointing finger.

we are released on our own recognizance.

***

mind, half hidden,
reveals whole truths half seen.
to pry open without touching
is to lure the shy profundity
out of its bottomless well.

forgetfulness in reach.

***

we have lost a good friend,
yet nothing has been taken away.
he left it all at our feet.
which hand will you pick it up with?

***

there are no words here, no syllables in line.
only before you are sounds in your mind.
listen!
alas, I fear the voice too familiar and ignored in the jousting,
as you beseech Sancho Panza, and spur Rocinante.

***

as you said, ‘we are here not to study the Work, but ourselves’.
now alone, we enter a larger classroom, and formal tasks dissolve,
leaving the blinds askew, the chalk board erased,  and yet to notice the potential of  our release…

it’s the crib sheets that abide,
scribbled in the code of dreams of passing grades, and
held in place by the tenacious gum,
under the desks.

(it’s funny, that one would pause before capitalizing the word, “Work.”
respect seems so lame and trifling on the page
now that the pronunciation is finally gleaned.
when we have to worry is when folks start to capitalize your name, and
then begin to add quotations around sounds that,
if they only listened, all source from a common mouth.
how else does a Calliope speak?)

[ok, what is the difference between standing up
from the page and engaging your reader
in a pseudo-meta conversation and just more
parochial talking to oneself?]

***

on the days typing is not downhill,
one must find freshness in the nature of what one is doing
and let content lag until its gets its legs back.
look at behavior like a faint star–
an indirect squint to the side and clarity, even novelty, appears.
even nothing to speak of is embellished with presence.

***

he wildly swings his pencil,
knowing how ephemeral his marks.
small erasures grow
till little trace of his presence remains.
we are all followed, though, by an embossed trail
on the blank pages below.

***

just trying to squeeze in a cogent phrase,
realizing one is already squeezed
by a self swelling self.
how else to pop the constraints?
rigorous unknowing, abundantly replacing
more with less.

laconic revelations of not much at all.

***

next time I’m buying a legal pad
where all the sheets are glued together.
you have to ‘get it all down’ on the first sheet.

cuneiform minds, right to the point.

***

a different kind of closeness.
not as capitalized, but more familiar.
lingering composure pervades.
shared sentiences,
several receptive words at a time.

***

to yea a position denies a consideration yet made.
(whose stakes do you use to mark your territory?)

each moment, the hedgerows grow thicker.
a clever goat is not restrained,
all is kudzu.

***

all some have is intention.
having dropped intent
on the rougher part of the trail.
still, they are surprisingly sanguine
about reaching the distant sunrise
by morning.

***

he was always looking for
the distant smoke signals.
and ignored the flashing neon arrows
he had to step over,
several times a day.

***

a twisting path up to the waterfall.
smooth rock face, evenly tumbled
house-sized boulders.
signs of big water shed eons ago
from mountains beyond.
now drought’s small stream.
crayfish heaven.

***

weight thrown around,
even tempered and
implacable to some.
granite speaks of immediacy
in slow measured words,
all its reality shared on its surface.
 
lichen, quiet sounds of soil making.

***

damn, how unsupervised life is.
this whole hillside
strewn with redolent traces of
creatures actually getting somewhere–
without maps.

***

nothing obsures me
from myself.
I would habitually say, “except……”
but the truth, when faced,
adds nothing.

***

I don’t compose for yesterday or for later.
even now seems restricted.
obviously, there is no writing here.
only letters spilling from a pouch,
inside my coat.

random mutations

 

***

the dream is taught everywhere.
life is stern principal.
boy fills his recess with unlearning, and
leaves knowledge at the schoolhouse door.

***

hardly anything is more fun than details
which tickle all sensations.
but it is the broad feather
that spreads this-ness into all dips and corners,
allowing the quick to see parity in all diversions.

***

the cool wind of existence.
one only tries to help
when one is not capable.
caring emerges from one sleeping,
who doesn’t see mutual identity,
and still weaves with but warp and weft
thin, porous blankets of two dimensions.

***

stale samadhi residue on the sheets.
dreamer with one eye opened.
now to pull the covers down,
the cock crows.

***

irony in place.
you cannot transmit the truth.
yet no truth withheld.
must be a short in these rabbit-ears

***

inside, there isn’t a something.
nor is there nothing.
and if you look between,
that’s all you will find.
you see with the mouth of your mind,
visions deceptively tasted.

***

those old pine trees still clutter the patio.
now a slinking cat.
the bark, how rugged!

***

indeed, we are on a steep trek; the sightseeing swell.
the sights themselves, however, are close, and
smell, methinks, much like spit and sweat.
pores spilling open,
mind vistas overlooking mind.

***

everything can be flipped,
even awareness.
it’s the utensil that gets in the way.
lose the spatula and cease being the pan.

***

‘miscellaneous’.
truly apt.
a perfect describer of our disparate sundriness.
where is the only occasion that excludes
such a melodious indication of our labyrinthine predicament?
only when we abandon the telltale string and burrow on through.
only then, when all aptness collapses
into that bright singularity,
minotaur slain.

***