Limited Linguistics

Word complex


A word or few can hold within its qualms

Entire universes of mysteries and miseries

From that initial jog into view down to

That final extirpation out of entropy’s final thrust.

Lives, of course are more than words, contain

Wonder and pain, love and disgust in configurations

Well beyond the noun or adjective or even verb.

One must contain a throat to scream, a mind

To dream, that sense immense cannot condense

Existence into the formalities of utterable sound

Or even scribbles symbolizing oddly the lightning of life,

That flash of clash that streaks through every now

May echo in linguistic thunder to trace the wonder

Of reality but there is no way that actuality can be trapped

Into the tangles out of the consonants and vowels enwrapped.




At end one cannot deny

That the perhapses still apply.

What we see, what we feel

Are most certainly not real.


Mickey Mouse and Barney Google,

Alley Oop, Pogo, Krazy Kat and President Trump

Are all somewhat mythical, devious contradictions

Like Thor, Yaweh, and all those that came before

To present the unlikely as likable to open the door

To the impossible.


Behind my eyes, between my ears, beneath my nose

The universe is fabricated from synaptic jitters.

All that glitters may not enfold

How the real gets unrolled.


The fossil lubrication to slide us into suicide has dark comedy

To keep the risible invisible while interstellar audiences laugh out loud

To watch the hairless apes collect inedible jellybeans to stifle screams

That arise at the flooding genocide of much of everything alive.


Which confirms the cosmic spirit rumor

That the real gods retain a sense of humor.

The Script

coin flip


That old fickle fated finger that scribbles,

With stuck drawers,  or a sneeze and no handkerchief,

With the neighbor’s dog barking through the night,

With cars that will not start and the wife’s headache

That dissolves that moment of spontaneous amour,

Seemingly, impossibly, connected, but yet…

As if, whoever punches out the keys of destiny

Has lost proper inspiration, run out of good ideas.

The celestial cup of coffee has gone quite cold.

This happens, perhaps once or twice a week

To you or me, but these late years,

This whole world seems to have run out of steam.


Tigers, whales, honeybees, bats, and frogs are saying goodbye.

Idiots have been running civilization for centuries, but now,

Human ingenuity has equipped them so wonderfully,

With such fine tools and efficiencies that their chaotic goals

Will soon be realized, humanity’s designated finale.

Whether we all drown, fry, or simply vanish in radioactive smoke,

Is still involved with a tossed coin, or the common oops.

It seems unavoidable.







I do not know what I do not know.

Unknowned is to be un-owned, unpossessed,

A state distressed in doubt of no way out.

We live in probabilities of connection,

Faint dendritic spider webs to weave

Networks to capture possibility

Which, to large extent remains

Empty, unfulfilled, spun

Unrewarded while

The golden dust of promise

Drifts, immune to capture,

Glittering in some wild joy

That treasures the immense unattainable,

But yet, but yet displays

Promises of, perhaps,

Other ways.



The Feel Of Real



To touch, to smell

The torrid heat of hell

Wherein the relief of obliteration

Could end the pain, dismiss

Those sensitivities that infuse existence

With the horrors of persistence

Gives horrid substance to demands

Of end.


Addictions to the miracle

Where beauty thunders after the lightning strokes

Of revelations, out of fields of wild flowers,

Explosions of new Springtime life

Cracks through Winter’s frozen breath

To demand something of

A dead universe

Unique and wonderful.


To be born in a world of tigers,

Crickets that sing in chorus with the frogs

Under a clear night clouded with stars of promise

Of other inspirations into wild possibilities

And feel deeply something has gone wrong.

Something turned quite alien.

The song is ceasing.

And the silence has become immense.


There is no atmosphere in space

Where a lyric note might sustain.

The melodies of Earth are quite local.

Life sings to itself of small curiosities

With whiskers and pink noses,

Bright eyes to snatch nourishment

With particles of love and joy.


We recently have sent out inquisitors

To pry secrets from the dark.

Rainbows now speak of actualities,

The roar of celestial furnaces

To obliterate solidities into energies

And gravitic space to kinematics.

The symphonies of life

Do not play.


It now seems obvious

We living things intrude

Where life and death

Are oddities, commodities

That invade as alien visitors,

Most peculiar tourists on lands

With persuasions quite unresponsive

To the generations of our elations.


There are, among us, traitors to life,

Those who would destroy our vibrance, psychotics

Who employ determinations to disintegrate

The magnificence of our living eloquence,

To evaporate in atomic fury the fragilities

Of our nascent possibilities,


These allies of the dead rocks that fill our skies

Must, inside, be somehow dead, heads full stocked

With unthinking stones, implements of death

Lacking in totalities of life’s fragile hold and breadth

Of reality.


These seducers into the coming hell know full well

The malevolence they would release in insanity

To incinerate all vestiges of life, diplomats to oblivion

In crazed persuasions. We who live and still command

And are commanded by our love of life, nor can deny

This is our sole devotion – to be sane to claim our right

To remain.


Seismic Offering



The brain rumbles in pre- apocalyptic intimations,

Sparks of panic streak the troubled sleepless nights,

Outline the indefinables in waves of trembling fears.


Zeus and Thor cackle in their rocking chairs about how it was

Back when their powers held the planet firm.

And Clark Kent cowers in his underwear in some dark alley

Wondering what happened to that telephone booth,

Long replaced by cell phones, where his suit and cape are hidden.


The brittle shell, grips, like a fist, the molten energy that sustains,

Deep within the planet’s core, now restless that paces like some zoo tiger

Within its tight cage, eager to break loose to shoot its anger to the stars.

The constraints on the energies within the Sun, in equal ferocity,

Growls in sympathy.


We fleas upon the backs of monsters are strangely eager

To itch them to scratch away our nuisances in order

That they might proceed, in their own majestic way,

To slope down undisturbed to their entropic Bethlehem.


The fragile tragic-comedic farce of human economics and politics

Plays on to an audience lost in miseries, in uncertainties,

Where the purported brilliance of humanity has wandered off

Into the sadistic delights of military dead ends and the wonders

Of massacre fantasies within the intricate delights of video heroism.


No doubt we must be grateful for the somewhat clumsy theatrics

Now on display to puncture any possibility of mutual respect,

Of inherent decency which, despite its timid rarity, does, on occasion

Make a brief appearance in human history, somewhat awkwardly.


So, the doubts are rapidly disappearing that this is not the final act.

The stage is set, all the flashy props are in place and the actors, well-rehearsed.

Whether this wonderful and rather unique bit of theater is purely spontaneous

Or has its script edited and plotted since the monkeys moved out of the trees,

Is beyond our present technology to detect but there are prominent suspicions.

It’s been a pleasure to watch it unfold.



folded hands


I would construct

From simplicity

A tight net to ensnare

The Moon, a seagull swoop,

The sprinkle spread

Of golden dandelions on green lawns.

Time gobbles

Color, sound, scent

And love.

It’s trail of melting memories,

The felt breeze

From passing wings

Of delight

Are ephemeral.

My tight folded hands

Clutch nothingness.



Tongue Tied



Herding words to perform tricks,

Acrobatics into ballads, rhymes

That twinkle into good times

Or vocal thunders of the wonders

Out of an angry psyche, or perhaps

Chagrin of a grin of consonants that spin

The lacks of linguistic qualities into

What cracks of frustrations of the tongue,

Can meander through the thistles of epistles

That declaim and blame and shame the world

Which, might avail to twitch its tail or rail

Against the commonplace of not to face

The obvious insanities of the human race.


The error to displace fundamental thought

With fanatical grammatical enticements barely

Face that thinking is not a parade of alphabetics.

The universe of mind entails qualities where language fails,

A place to trace great overtones of sight and sound, feelings

That slip like snakes into the underbrush of all sensation

Where fails the consciousness to follow secret trails.

You cannot catch a color such as red which can bleed

Or roar with fire tornadoes in the Sun or suppose a rose.

Language languishes in weak frustration faced with furious reality.

Language might faintly reflect an astounding effect but never, never

Never contain the torrents gushing moment to moment out of time.