The Joke

The Joke

Everything started out with the jokes.
Or with THE joke.
The one.
The joke to begin and/or end
all the other jokes in this world.

It all started out with that joke.
Until everything & all
had been turned into a joke,
and the joke—all by itself—
had become much too serious
for any other kind of joke.

(Within or without
this dusty old world.)

The oldest road (I ever know)

The oldest road (I ever know)

We were driving alongside that road.
Half-awake and half more asleep.
Never knowing which way we would go…
or what kind of place it would take.

We were driving alongside this ancient road.
Among so many traffic-light homes,
to ever really call it our own
(or even somebody elses).

Hypnagogic vistas and eyelids and homes.
Now—so much alike—and so alone (in our own eyes).
Just like the smallest stepping stone.
It all seems so much the same.
Right when you’re not really there.
Or when it’s not really here. All at once.

But… through each of these homes…
as their own secret temple, and chapel,
weaved out of hearts.
Lighting up, now, with so many candles and lights.
Bursting forth with everyone, people and life!
Bursting forth, almost like flames—
of their own secret time.
And their whispers of places.

We were driving alongside that oldest of roads,
looking for our own secret home.
Never knowing… that the road,
and the car… was our home.
Onto this ancient old earth.
Only here, in our hearts.

The Fable

The Fable

There was a dice,
a many-sided dice,
and each side has a word.
A part of a tongue
that no one had heard.
And as it rolled
along the table,
each little fable and song,
would be chanted
“this tall” and “that long”.
Alongside this table
with so many faces and ages.
Each one living a part
of a story,
much much too large
to ever be held,
in any single one
of their hearts or hands.

So, as the fable
grew taller and taller,
this longer and wider and grander
deep into their hearts and their minds
and the parts of their lives,
they would all see, they would all come to know….
how each of their selves, played
one very small part
in a play,
much too mighty
to ever hold, or be contained,
in any single one
of their hearts or their kinds.

Freestyling arabesque

Freestylin arabesque

Arabesque mouthpiece,
ornamental eyes
of a cranial head,
endlessly (world wide) open
b/4 many king(doms) to come,
dressed in leather and scars,
and dreads wrapped in feathers,
punXish sista,
with a twista,
egyptian backbone
of too many a cultures,
twisting turning over,
until even evermore things yet to come.

Confirmation bias

Confirmation bias

Worrying about dying
will actually shorten your life.
By up to one 7th of a lifetime.
(It has even been scientifically
Being concerned with other
peoples judgements
will make you seem even worse
in those other peoples judgments.
(It has even been sociologically

Wolf in the Flow


Wolf in the flow

Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.

Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a’ things,
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.

The metaphor that is us

The metaphor that is us

That the metaphor could be us (&—ourselves)
is just what someone
much too wise (and/or crazy)
might say (and yet where’s the differerence?).
As a something—to be–,
no—not in the things—
but in the way
that we are…. that they are…
each thing’s selfness and same-ness…
their distant far-ness and nearness.
Just like a wide-open field
projected to points
that can never be quite known.
For the whole of this field is still needed
to embrance just this one
point .
(Among so many others).
The one that is us (= ourselves)
or something just slightly else (that is us?)
that can never quite be known.

3 cheers for munster quark

3 cheers for munster quark

Hours hath turned
among the dunes and waves.
A lake of blood
and a tear,
bubbling brewing
slightly over
the edge of this land.
With a hand
pushing rocks
like a betlee,
rolling each wheel
of great machines,
half-beat measures of life
and all warmth,,,,
the other judged now
as death,,
the most frozen
of fingers
and edges.
nearly splitting from shaking.
with a fracture
just from moving at all,,
about and alongside
this here one ground.

As a ship
in between… summer’s crown
and the greenest of frost.
Breaking open and loose
with this here one bottle,
spinning in time
or a tide,
with an eye
by a hook,
turning back
all the sands and hands of time
as a cheer
echoes forward
across this star-board.