Literal, Literature and Liturgy: Book of Lee

Okay it's the holidays and that ALWAYS means Mom. She loved collecting Santas and talking at kitchen tables with snacks. And then, we let men in white coats backed by corporate deacons and the church of Health, Medicine & Wellbeing poison and radiate her to death at the ripe old age of 54, right before my sibling's and lost father's eyes.

Of course, as the Book would have it, I was far away in Hollywood, but I did come home to see The End.

Ah yes, and then there's him. Daddy. After a few short years with his only friend gone and two years barely into retirement, alone in a stripped-down house with NO SANTAS, no color, and no spirit, it finally was his turn.

His lungs of all things; what a Lucky Strike. I remember being sent on the errands, money in hand and a short bribe on top, to go walk to the gas station each weekend and buy the cigarettes that killed him.

Oh, how I'm Witness!

Yeah so holidays always kinda brought me down. I was gonna say "bring" but nah, I feel the spirit this season -- I do. But it ain't no Jesus spurring me on. It's Light as a theme and love of Home. But they won't stop reading the wrong book out there! He's the reason for the season, they all say, and cite that stupid, Kubric monolith (one rock) of a Black Book everyone still thinks is really history.

The only Bible is the book you live every day, and you read this Book by noting all the irony and synchronicity of your each and every hour -- the silly coincidences that only Authors can come up with. And then it Dawns on you. You ARE the Bible, not God! Wow! Just a pretty Damned-Good Read. See? Both ways the Word "read," -- one Way Once Done, and the other -- to Do. So Merry Christmas.

Happy Jesus.

To the Three Magicians and a Star!

To a poor bastard kid.

[a stubborn life] || sweet boy, the hive came crashing down today | cracked open on the driveway | sweet boy, the bee queen fled here from the smoke | the day i burned the roses | i dreamed i gave her new wings for her flight | the once she owned just didn't fit right | sweet boy, there is this stubborn life | cracking me open like the bee hive | somewhere somewhere somewhere inside | sweet boy, if you ever made me cry, | it was from all the tender things you've said | sleep tight, and when you wake up again | it is my time to go to bed | like every every every night, okay? ||

"That which triggers off an affect, that which effectuates a power to be affected, is called a signal: the web stirs, the scalp creases, a little skin is bared. Nothing but a few signs like stars in an immense black night. Spider-becoming, flea-becoming, tick-becoming, an unknown, resilient, obscure, stubborn life." (Dialogues, 61)

a footnote to Mom and Dad - their Bibles were beautiful books, and are still, and holy; I have rite and live their stories every day. Heck, I've even created hymns. They are Genesis to me.

A Shadow Without Eyes and Growing

SO LATELY I've had to wear the glasses everywhere because the hard lenses just gave out -- the edges get jagged when they get ragged. Time for new ones. I have to wear thick THICK ant-burning magnifiers, my eyes are so bad.

So it got me to remembering when I was a kid and had to wear them all the time. Beat up and made fun of for having them on back then. And now I go to work wearing them! Anyway, at night, as a kid, they had to come off when you went to bed. That's scary, because everything in the room instantly takes on a bigger, cloudier shape just when you don't want it to. And your wee sleepy mind stays awake, trying to make things out all night.

Worse than most kids, I saw all your same scary things, only much bigger and more horrifying because my canvas was a hell of a lot broader. If your mind plays tricks on you with a closet light in the dark, imagine the cardgames it throws when all that shit's blobby and moving.

You see things in the night.

So yeah, where was I? Oh yeah. Because of all this I would always have this recurring nightmare, well into my prepubescent days I might add, that was more like lucid nightmaring. It was no dream that's for sure. I would try to lay there, terrified, and fall asleep. Closing eyes never helped. The simplest of themes, even all shut up tight I would feel the presence of EYES. But when I looked (the fear response) all I would see was this SHADOW WITHOUT EYES AND GROWING persistent in the corner of the ceiling, way over there in the dark.

Not on the ceiling, nor on the walls either. But in the corner, hoisted or floating, and looking down and all over at once at the same time. Like one corner of a triangle filling in with swirls of oil, if you will. Man I was scared; but in a very personal way. How do you tell people about something you can't see? And this was every night! I saw the eyes with my whole being; felt the darkness like heavier air, always approaching the shoreline of my blanket but never getting close enough on land.

Now skip ahead into adulthood, with me working for the Rhode Island Tourism Division. I was with my colleagues on a "familiarity tour" (FAM) of historic houses, maybe mansions -- who's to say really -- but it surely was the Masons I remember. (an aside for later: Mom worked as a nurse at the OES nursing home in RI).

In that musty museum with heavy drapes and shiny floors you walk through velvet roped-off rooms into the family quarters of the rich, still bedecked in original 18th century opulence. Then the children's rooms. Man, they used to PAINT murals on the ceiling of their kids' rooms -- sky scenes with clouds and stuff, and then I saw it. The all-seeing Eye! Propped up in the sky! Along with symbols and stars and shit. Like, George Washington Mason stuff. Creepy! How many of these little brats looked up at night and saw things too? Only this was programming.

Mine was just a shadow of what theirs would always be. Open to the impressions of my fertile mind. So, my many builders of the Temple, look at how I've Turned Out.

The first imprinting. Not painted Vegas skies above my pillow, but right there in my head. Root consciousness. Basically, like the counted semicircle stars and symbolism gazed at by the spawn of important bloodlines, my fear track was my own and contained much more absolute power. Claymation from only my hands.

Skip back to present day, and it's the same thing, I am thinking, as I strip off the goggles and head to bed.

The blurry things bring me back. One day you finally realize all the fear under the bed on the ceiling and in the closet was only YOU looking back, and this makes for the simplest banning ritual in both worlds once you grow up and see that it was yourself, inner and outer unresolved, all along the Way. What better way to hide from the Eye than to realize there are none but yours?

Is that you? That you? (squint) Oh hi! How the Hell are ya?

International Clownday

That's how we'll do it.

All agree, once and for all, on a calendar week in which we

a) don't watch TV or check the Internet; and

b) dress up as clowns every day.

Even those in government, mayor and all. Imagine your daily routine with each other? No show to discuss? No thing you saw at home? Clowns, all of us. So we'd do it then. We'd all dress bad Shakespeare in a grossly overdone, vaudevillian way. Only colorful and cartoony!

The world would be upside down and circus like. But whoa the fun we'd have!

Oh, it would start small. But then grow real real big. Even the president, if he even wanted to or not, would HAVE TO DRESS AS A CLOWN just for credibility. The UN would pass a resolution that demanded international compliance in an effort to eventually support world peace and understanding that we are one, colorful race after all. Some countries would say no, others maybe. But it wouldn't matter because the people of everyday you see would be clowns.

Even armies would comply. The brilliance of instantly recognizing a way to stay connected simply surpassed war on the basis of economy alone. WIGS ARE CHEAPER THAN BOMBS. Criss-crossed eyes of us all! So then, after the week was done, it would be tough getting back to your everyday routine -- but you'd have the footage from the last week to look at now.

Yes -- cameramen were dressed as clowns.

Anchors, too. Networks needed footage (most of it big and red), they always do! Every year we'd analyze, with the help of FOX and CNN of course, how we clowns all got along.

Take it back silly gooses!
Take back the three rings and be king of it all!

photo note: okay, the Vegas sign thing is gettin' kinda scary. When you click the photo you'll see a logo. In VEGAS. Glizy hotel signs. Everyone's using it around here to put their shit up in lights, and it just ain't right. More on this later. Clicking the title tells a million words too.

Checkerboard Head

Checkerboard Head sculpture
The world
it constantly demands of us
black and white,
yet all we've got there
'tween the headbones
is nothin'
but lots of
gray matter
to make sense
of it all.

Fuck Space Travel

...and time travel too. You can't go where you already are. There are only two spaces and no time at all. Inside and outside surrounded by the same One Thing, this instant and always. So what the fuck, why explode? But really -- don't bring the suit deep underwater and you'll implode like a beercan underboot. Go way too high up without the suit and BLAMMO you explode from every inside, heart and all.

I watched the Space Age being born,
and I would like to participate!

--from the NASA job application of astronaut Sharon Christa Corrigan McAuliffe, of Lebanese origin through her father and first teacher in space. She died on the job in 1986. Dying along with her that day, former pilot from Isreal Ilan Ramon, who fought four years earlier in the 1982 war in Lebanon, and who incidentally bombed an Iraqi nuclear reactor in 1981. Yeah! Click the picture for more.

So the suit, then is the lie all around us.

You can't bring your true nature with you wrapped in tupper-wear where you truly don't belong. Travel to the stars? Fuck, I am a star! Sorry for the Profane. There's a real sad joke in the fact that all everyone remembers a girl named Ride. Sally at that.

Byfar My Favorite Size

Sure, A4 intrigues the hell out of me, but if pressed, I would have to say my favorite paper size byfar is 11 x17 (tabloid). It's just so cool and feels great in your hands, no matter what you're reading.

There. I said it. Good night.

Beat the Buddha

I can no longer stand by and hear it without swearing at my car radio. "The government today cracked down on the monks peacefully demonstrating in the streets by rounding them up, beating them with their rifle butts, and hauling them off for interrogation and torture."

Burma. Buddha. Bastards. I hate soldiers, I'm sorry. But I do.

The so-called soldiers who beat unarmed religious men of peace are just plain thugs. The government in Burma isn't doing anything wrong. In fact it isn't doing anything at all. What you see here are blind, stupid thugs.

Individual men devoid of humanity and inflated by the hot air balloon of the state's authority. Not a single thought for themselves, nor of their actions' consequence. The junta government does not exist! The map is not the territory, remember? Right there on the street though, the soldier is the one bashing his rifle butt into the head of a bald, defenseless holy man who he knows will not fight back and represents no threat to his person whatsoever. Just one man brutally beating another while the sun shines and birds sing overhead.

The government doesn't pick up so much as a stick.

How can it? It's a concept. Let me say it again. Look at the people in these pictures. They could all have the same Mom and Dad. They could all switch outfits and look the same. And yet, put an (intimidating) outfit on some of them and they become monsters. Our brains are very tiny things. The government is only as strong as the soldier carrying out its authority. Atrocities are never performed by states or leaders. They are performed by some everyday guy with black hair and crazed with hate at the trigger end of a state-sponsored murder weapon.

Maybe even your brother. Maybe even in Iraq.

Champion Breakfast: OJ, Bread and Circuses

SO TRANSPARENT now! Amerika! Too late to sleep. Election year-- a woman and a black man. How to stop the chances of political upheaval and military abandonment if you're the big machine already-in-progress?

Divide and conquer, just like in Iraq! Give the common folk their bread and circuses to distract them from the real matters at hand (in glove yuk yuk). Suddenly after like millions of sports memorabilia events for years where I'm sure his stuff got circulated, OJ decides "hmmmm, now's good" and storms a room in Vegas with the velvet glove this time audio smooth.

Then, some easily manipulated taunting and button-pushing at a tree NOT destroyed by Hurricane Katrina and some dude gets pummeled for the prosecution. Now the six in Jena. How doth we protest? No it's not political at all.

All arranged I say. Press! As in you're a sandwich heavy on the grill.

It will go like this now: How can we expect a black president when they all can't even get their act together, fighting like crazy in the streets all about who got away with murder (see OJ, above) when? Oldest trick in the book! And this last curve.

Months and months no little Laden who knew no place did he shoo and BOOM he's all over the television in still frame. Hey, is that a postage stamp talking? Cuz stop sign Mc-voterville ain't gonna be able to tell the difference 'tween Osama and Obama, and that's why his name will go down the tubes - people will remember that Osama dude instead. Not as easy as (burning) Bush.

So you see we can't have Obama. Can't have a dude there who represents off the handle hotheads and resurrects the wounds of the deep, still drowning South. So OJ, morning marks please. First scene of the day. Circus South with a noose!


Another example of the Bisquich has surfaced. Sold right there on iOffer: "Bisquich Fresh Summertime Recipes, 1977." Click the photo to see the sale page. Tomorrow the world!

Osama Bin Latte

I simply HAVE to make this post right now. Hurry! Hurry! Step right up! Get your Bisquich buy! Heh -- Even though I made it a while back it's ripe for ol' black beardie now coming on TV to talk to us. Wait a minute! I know something isn't right here... last time he was old!

That's right. Can't put one over on me, you terrorists. I'm an American.

Drink up Amerika. It's frothy at the top.

Click on the pictures to shop! A neat Euro-car oval sticker! A bitchin' beach bag! Even to a Tee.

Everything is Superimposed

It's way too late. Even on the iPhone giddy idiots push "buttons" like crazy on an elecro-sensitive grid and think they have access to to it all. Don't get me wrong it's pretty. But, wake up kids, cuz guess what? There are no buttons there! You're pushing nothing -- don't be fooled! Press... PRESS!! Oh, I want to press it!

buttons must be pressed

I say, make Them touch your click, not make you dream control is yours! You want control? Touch me or Nothing! Yeah. There's where it all starts, I'm afraid.

I just saw a commercial for Target on TV - you know where everything you're not gonna buy is white and backgroundy and the colorful kids run all over the place? Superimposed. All the white is unimportant, but these kids have got to stand on something after all. Beautiful, commercial agents of the Market Gods like angels stepping all over the poor fluffy white clouds of Heaven.

And we buy it. We're all kinda like that now. Nobody knows who runs what any more. We're all pushing buttons that aren't really there. Colorful ones too. Screens and monitors reach out for our Adamic touch every stupid, repetitive day of our lives. We swim right for the hook each and every time. Grouped together, on a blue background. You name it. Ocean, sky, what was once blue before the greeenscreen, it goes on.

Everything is just put on there. To play around. And we do, but we're not really there are we, if there's more outside that stage of puppet theater? I thought about more like this, too. If all these pressing screens replaced clickety typewriter keys what's the big diff? Well for one thing - FORM. You used to have to directly touch controls for technology to work. Now they're all gone. There's no more thing. No more sticks, levers. No more wheels. We're making it ALL UP.

Postage stamps of glass wait for our finger poke and stroke now. Little hungry lillypads for the Circuit Board of approval, all lit up and ready. When they're dark they're truly ugly and look the same, and now you know why.

If we think we're controlling stuff and that stuff isn't even there we think we're manipulating, then our attempt at control is illusionary and futile. We are all definitively dreaming, because the last time I checked, when you frantically pressed buttons or tried dialing phones in a real-ass hurry in a dream or nightmare, it was all imaginary too.

and thus the thunderstorms

Pressing did nothing, and now it does nothing in the "real world" too. The line is gone and we are drowning in MEDIA, the ocean foretold so many many times. She is a tricky One, Flood. Wash away the sins now, or get ready to count the giraffes on board.

In Just Seven Days

They will pretend He took seven days to make it all. The sad reality is this: He's not around, never made anything and is in grave danger of dying. It's YOU. Yes, the sad truth here is that creation is coming into Being, not happened once -- when God awakens -- in whatever version you see fit to coalesce -- we're only going to have about seven days to do it right. It's how it works. They turned it all around somehow. Turns out it's us who only gets a week. The audacity of putting God to work!!

I think we better hurry though, because on the seventh day we will work our hardest. I just know the pattern by now.

Kinda Stunned Today

So I never saw the guy sing it really. Just heard the magic. In all honesty I guess I always pictured someone from the past -- a kind of Johnny Mathis ghost. I had heard the adaptation of Leonard Cohen's original "If it Be Your Will" on the I'm Your Man release recently when I Van Winkled into iTunes and "discovered" Leonard Cohen a while back (so I liked Tom Waits, shoot me! That's an awful lot of froggie-throated poet at once).

Now it's the same thing with this Antony. Prepare yourself if you haven't witnessed his other stuff. Also listen to him on NPR in an interview from a 2005 broadcast. Amazing, and angel-like. Yeah I stoop to that. But if one came in your room to sing you to blinding white heaven or the grayest of forgotten purgatories, this would surely be the voice and the melody. He also has a MySpace profile, where he lists his interests as sailors, fish, goblins, light beams, rain, tricks, and crying.

Brain Bennedict

So lately I've been reading a few books on the Toltec; there are so, so many out there. They really understood this thing called Reality, and the dream of everyone. Anyway, I prefer the more modern books blended into the self-help sections. They tie stuff to our daily chaos now, and don't get lost in the middle of the archeology and history of it all.

Alchemical psychology - but with neater drawings. Glyphics!

The Toltec, like the co-called "ancient" Egyptians, realized there was a lot more to life than the things in front of you. Like get this simple idea: all that space between stars and planets isn't empty. You put an object up there in space, and it gets illuminated. That is, the space between is filled with light. Not empty, but swimming in light.

And the space between the nucleus and electron shells of the atoms making us up? Same light. Yep - everything is light and maybe a few tiny bits of matter are suspended in it here and there. This light -- it touches on everything I write about, but if you concentrate on the idea that there is no space, essentially, between any of us, between you and the moon, between you and your long lost mother... it can produce a collapsing cascade of false security enough to bring down a entire house of cards.

And who is this conspiracy that prevents us from seeing the Truth? Well, you've been aiding a fugitive all this time. You see, our brains are parasites, keeping us held to the dream. Focused all in unison, all on the wrong thing. Here's the right thing now: Identify the symbols of your dream. Look at the world outside your eyes in this new, nagual way. See what your brain doesn't want you to see, and see how the two dreams can fuse and allow the real stuff to bubble up between.

Ode to an Atheist Science Kook

I get into discussions all the time about Jesus. I get into discussions all the time about what's big-R Reality. I get into discussions all the time about Truth, and the absence of absolutes.

The more I think of it now, the more I realize I am not getting into anything at all. It is getting into me. And so, it is getting into you too.

Stop looking in the test tube! Observing is making us stick. You and I are the same, and nobody will believe. This is the beginning-end and that is no trick of words, symbols or even game of language. It is a game though. To describe what is indescribable, the Logos becomes, talks to itself incessantly in endless arrays of acts and scenes and, oh the beautiful game of Ego which hath no victory nor purpose.

Just the wind of we. The dream that flows.

Communicate? Oh, please. Each letter is a symbol and its words are trains on which they ride. Right into my head. Your head too. I am in there now. Rules in avenues of percussive punctuation in the Maya you perceive as order. Non-sense, if you will.

As David Byrne says (Talking Heads), Stop Making Sense. Even the Beatles. Now, hit me.

Balsa Wood Pilot Guy

You KNOW that was always the best part of the kit.

It came dressed in a thin cardboardy stiffness, wings all flat and even the special "engine" of rubberband and big red plastic propeller attached to praying mantis wheels. And these paper slivers of soft, wet, seemingly hamwood but real tree Styrofoam indeed. Yes, the paper airplanes in candy wrappers! But putting them together was only part of it. Of course it flew -- took off sometimes movie credits good, too. No-one ever saw this of course, only the times you said look and there it went all 911 right before your eyes.

But no, I'm talking about that GUY. He was part of the kit; in my humble opinion (Bisquichinanly large and hairy as it may seem) the BEST part of it.

It was an oblong tab with a pilot printed on it. The side view appearance showed him to be a very intent, obviously military (no dust cropper dreams for boys please) pilot. You just sort of stuck him in there, along the spine of the vertically presented balsa piece passing for the body of the airplane. Like putting a coin away in jewelry case. Click here or on the post title to see a sample of it. I used to make him face the wrong way just for fun.

To fly, one could simply mean ALOFT.

Now the years have gone by and I realize...that pilot guy is us.

The symbol of mighty direction in flight and yet being nothing of the kind. Looking keenly onward-front but mounted only on flying pieces of wood tension strong to a rubber band of flight, and not by the feathers we all really have. Poor 2D pilot guy! There he is, bold as a coin face when seen from one side, mission in the skies of a child! Having no idea really how long the tension will last to support his brief journey in the air, or of whoMever may have wound it up just right or not nearly enough, tab into pre-cut slit-in-the-wood precision but always gruffly placed a little off in hurried fashion for the Great Godchildren to fly your plane with their giggles in the air.

YOUR plane.

I think it's us because lately we're always looking ahead somewhere else on the ground even when high up in the sky. It just makes no sense to me at all if Heaven's in the clouds. Always, always -- we're needing a place to land. And you know there's no such thing as land, right? So when you think of him think of you a little. I do now. If you close your eyes and think about it, you may like me remember building these airplane kits too, and when pushing the pilot into position flight after flight, always inward and deeper into the seat of the tiny wood, it was really a symbol to the study of life. Opus Christi, now fly.

If only you could turn and look around.

A Couple of Bullets

  • You need Nothing,
    and It could care less about you.
  • Love is about clicking, and yet all we do
    is poke the buttons on a mechanical mouse.
  • Illusion depends on seeing so much
    it does no work at all.

And Still My Sandals On

If Jesus wrote an autobiography today
he'd have an awful lot of fun with Capitals.

I needed the name for a book about Me, and I couldn't stand this version thing that was going on Down There. So here's My story the way it's happening now. Screw them, their stories are all just Movies. Mine's a diary.

I'm so tired being bound, you know?

If I walk on water but still wear shoes, I'm a lot better than Spiderman just let me tell you. One thing's for sure -- I am not NAILED DOWN. That's a pretty good metaphor though of where you have to go to Feel me Talking to you. But it ain't Me -- I just got out of all That Drama.

And hey, enough with kingdoms and Queen's Daughters and running away from It All while some fruity artist hides it in his pictures. You're an Idiot. I never left anywhere because I never was One Place at All. So if you think I got married and ran, you're nuts. But the power is All Around. In fact, all day Still. Just Going On.

So knock it off and become Once Again with Me.

Newton Knew Better Too

Always takes an apple though.
Gravity my ass.

Frankly I'm tired of it, all them lazy angels
landing on me, resting their wings,
weighting down the flutter of God.

No one can see?
Boy, you sure do stick to Earth.

Empires Feed on All You Do

Despite accounts to the contrary, it just may have been built in a day -- six days under God's Heavens & Earth project record, mind you -- but in thinking empirically I sure have discovered something interesting on the letters down:

R iding
O n
M y
E xperience

I dunno. I do a lot in a day, much of it boring to me but very interesting to a lot of other, say parties. They tell you right out it's parties. Interested parties on your behalf.

So back on track, as in the one they run on you, the Bible's full of all kindsa secrets spelled down and sideways. So why not Rome? And what a guilty, taxed place of almost all slaves and then the Rich. Oh well, it least it burns. It always always burns, and it goes up quick cuz someone always fiddles around too long instead of heeding mutiny's tides.

"The blaze broke out near the Circus Maximus stadium and raged for six days before it was extinguished."

Good luck, Citizens of Xperience. May, as the Irish say, the wind be to your back, and not bent by some jackass fat-cat senator of economy while you do all the walking.

What Freakin Genius is Vague?

After all it's just someone's idea. The theory of something. Everything that changed a world of one I admit, but bombs aside, all it really comes down to is this: when you're measuring stuff and discover light is absolute; you find out where you're measuring from is always relative to what you're measuring. You are that which you measure.

Speeding light the same no matter where we are. Energy, matter, form, spirit -- interchangeable pairs. Unless of course you stop. Absolutely not! Enough funnies. Motion is a serious, serious thing.

So then, Mr. messy-haired professor, say it's not what God said (not let x=something but let there be Light -- you figure out the difference) and we decide to measure, say, Truth, instead of light - just to find the energy.

What then, Einstein?

Does not the same formula apply? I believe you'll find it does. Truth is relative. So therefore be it resolved that the energy is emcee squared - Jehovah and Lucifer running a show if you want. Done. Don't make it stop... make it Stop.

Ants Should Not Catch the Corner of My Eye

is enemy One.
Everyone hates it.
Kills it burns it alive spits all over its
humiliated carcass for the sake of
simply staying masked.


Expose the Truth,
and where Lies then?
Hate to say it, but in the midst of You.

Even X-Files sounds like priests steering sheep all wrong:
the truth's inside of you,
like Aliens
and through your beating heart
like a brand new spear to come.


We all hear the message
loud and so clear,
but we live in a place now
is all the difference in the world.

Hey What's Up? Eh, Nothing.

You have nothing to fear.

Oh, har har. That's a really big something, that Nothing. Add the word "only" and up the "n," and you've got the basic Truth. Nothing is pretty huge. It makes up a heck of a lot of the huge universe -- outer space has more nothing in it than stars or gas now doesn't it?

And right here on Earth too, inside of you even at your deepest cell's molecule of an atomic core -- there is an absolute abundance of nothing, all hidden in the space between protons and neutrons and electrons. Well here's the News now. That nothing in you is the same nothing out there. The nothing everywhere is all one Nothing, and nothing all at Once.

Now that's huge, I'm sorry. And something that huge is indeed scary. So yeah, you pretty much have Nothing to fear. Better do something quick.

Bags of Water: Beware

If water is the God
then angels be these trees
to oceans run
trapped so much of its body
within other prisons made
from so-called sons of God
kitchen sinks and bathtubs

The world from outer space
two labels strong on a grade school chart
one points clearly to the sea as free
the other, to pictures of treatment plants
and power station rinses.
whilst we forget
that our body's skin holds blood inside --
made of water, always two-thirds
water. In every state,
the water.

Frozen: a timeless God.
Gases in no despair just stopped.
Gaseous: so free to fly about and frolic with the stars.
Gases as they really be.
Liquid: so trapped by this thing called Man.
Gases in transition not allowed to freely crawl
and get off the ground to fly.

This Elemental
one liquid should be left Alone,
yet its vapour, its ice, can't even be
so Man must go
and let the water be.
Bags of water, the Sacred Sisters sing,
Let free your blood now in every land,
not for spilling it my brothers -- but for letting liquid go.

No Net Can Get it All

Mankind always likes to say we HARNESS energy
and TRAP or CAPTURE light and even CONQUER nature,
but none of this is true.

The trap is our own and we catch ourselves out of the darkness
and never the light is All.

Tired of This One

It's not that I have too many words.

It's that I have them too fast.

They hear every word I know it. Keeping up is pissing them off. A letter laden sea of black and white words in so many paragraphs too heavy for a magazined eye. And ears are just as guilty.

Stepping On the Sky

If you think about it, you really do have one up on the Jesus. He could walk on water, but you got that beat.

I'm staring out into this sudden Sunday spring downpour, safely under the carport roof and encircled within a long train of the Sunday nicotine express. See -- I think to myself, that's really the sky falling down out there, and I can trod right through that; puddles were once the sky.

In a million heavy sighs its heavenly song ends, furious water looking for the Source once more but limited to such earthen flows now. So is walking through the sky really better than walking on the water?

Hell, I think so. Maybe even a miracle.

Wrong Job

Holy shit, look at these so-called seminars! To say I am in the wrong job now is just plain wrong. The whole world (no pun there, honestly) is around us and still we're half an apple strong. But you know what? I gotsta pay da bills too, and that pisses me off. Because I wanna be out there in Switzy-loo hoo too, hobnobbing about how that thing really means this and getting paid for it. Oh well work tomorrow. Back to the porn.

It Ain't Jesus It's Noah

So on Easter I thought about this. This whole thing with Jesus rising year after year and never really coming back just seems preposterous. So it can't be Him; that's too easy. You see we were all once hunters and gatherers at one time in the past. The agriculture and technology and printing and oh the mounds of information. But since then that's all we humans can really do in this place we continue to label "Nature," even though we're part of it.

All the other animals go around doing their animal thing. And we left that, calling it something and locking the door behind us. Berries? Why bother! We're too advanced! Firewood? What? Are you crazy? I need to find stuff, you know, do a search or something in the Internet. Gather it all up. Any new knowledge is just more stuff we didn't have before, so we gather and gather and gather.

And all this time we're wiping out the animals. Yet all we can do is, well, point. So it ain't no Jesus comin' on through next time soon. It's Noah, and he's mighty pissed.

Where Have all the Bells and Whistles Gone?

Used to be just that. They said it alot about machines -- like it's got all the bells and whistles meant it had all the EXTRA gizmos too. But why would a machine be good if it has a lot of noisemakers? Isn't that kind of stupid and annoying more than efficient? Maybe it's about hot cars, I dunno.

But bells going off. Whistles. Things to wake you, stop you in your tracks. ALERT. Well, for the most part when we hear bells now it's long-off churches or the Ice Cream Man. The schoolkids hear it, but that's another (Pavlovian) story. But now the bells have faded. Whistles aren't on trains -- those are loud loud horns. Coaches and traffic cops or parade - ceremonial whistlestop.

So where have all the bells and Whistles gone?

BEEP. That's where. Now it's about beeping if you think about it. How many beeps do you hear in the course of just one day? Alarm clocks, microwaves, phone messages, sometimes even ON the phone like with call waiting, watches, cars behind you, washing machines, coffee makers; always -- just wait for the beep.

Wow. That's a alot of techno-birdsong if you ask me. And here, you ignore the birds each day. Or worse -- dismiss them all entirely when heard, as on thing, one distraction, classified as birds, in a whirlwind of fake beeping and movement when technology is ready for you now.

Looking Right at Me

So down South now .. inches away, every time I see little birdies running all around on my wild grassy lawn, you know, real close-up and detailed, eye contact close...I always ALWAYS think to myself (same thing in New England, only a bunch of filthy seagulls french-fry close)...

..wonder which one of them is me?

They're Out Tonight

Darkness all around,
yet a blackness above
Upon hours no longer blue,
is this not the same sky today?

And in it, these stars!

Ah, but therein the secret,
for such celestial pieces of the blue
so One above
are not in the sky at all,
but swimming, so said, in the outer space.

Where, then, the inner space
and does it too have such stars?

Saving Daylight

Well I hope you did it. I went along, so many hands-changing it was like politics and rich people. What's all the fuss? Daylight, or the amount in a day when the sun is up, has been moved to a new time. Now, I know we can't move Nature. I mean -- we aren't God.

But anyway, we did. So tune in every day twice now at a different time, officially. Ah, you can't win over Nature. You'll never do it! But, Law controls the clocks. Gotta go now.

The Biggest Lie of All

GOD IS A ... noun

The Sky is not blue
you make it that way every time
and so many people see what you do
and this is not the work of God?

No, you do not move.
One animates.

The funniest thing sometimes is
when I think of Jesus sitting down
in another chair next to Dad
after all that hanging around on a Hill
thumbtacked to sticks
when once He tread upon the waters
in which we'd surely drown.

Make it happen.
Not what's happening now.

Why must I always be under the Sun?
I see it there, low and high, low again
always way above me
and I hate that I can never go over the Sun.
Oh, they tell me we go all around it.
But that's not me.

Someday, I'll get over it for sure.