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.

Helter Shelter

To grapple with an apple


Confirmation to assumptions of its weight,

Its state and shape, negotiations with fragilities,

To  achieve success, a standard

That cannot be disregarded.

And so it goes with apples, other fruit,

With anything that might compute

But love and hate and those things great

Somehow escape computation.

Finance and simple basic appreciation

That each of us is worth consideration

As fellow creatures, old survivors and kids

And every range of human colored skin

That has no key to value what goes on within.

People and many dogs, cats and most turtles,

A few dozen seagulls and many owls, and, to my taste,

A good many butterflies and giraffes deserve regards

Of delight as well as all the stars at night plus ill considered

Summer days of welcome warm breezes, wild strawberries

Meant for raccoons and sparrows donated by a gentle Earth

With concerns for every living thing at birth.


How now should I congregate

The particles of myself entwined

In eternal argument where

Their sharp spines and deep pockets

Defy any sense of unity.

They pierce and repel each other

In hates and delights, screaming melodies

Of presumptions, groaning shards of incomprehension

Where mystery and history grope to resolve

What to retain, what to discard.


I am an old closet of decades of ancient apparel, stained

Slightly, here and there. Stiff leather shoes and striped neckties

For a few shirts no more to wear but still, somehow

With dusty expectations of extinct possibility.


Evenings still splash their glittering orange skies,

Magpies and crows still squawk if I stare and chickadees

Follow for crumbs and chirp in persuasion.

This world of dandelions launch their hopeful seeds.

Deciduosities mourn summer’s loss in poetries of red and gold

While early winter’s winds bite my nose and ears and fingertips.


There are, perhaps, a few years more to guess what comes next,

To settle in my mind  that this speck of eternity has been a privilege

To see, one that is rarely granted to most of all that stuff that spends its eons

Tumbling through endless emptiness, incurious of why.   

The Hum And The Bang

Everything moves,

Everything shakes,

It takes just a while,

And everything breaks,

There’s just no time,

For total stability,

To stop on a dime.

Once in a while,

Everything fits,

Buy it’s just the style

That all of the bits

Jiggles and wiggles

So all of the stuff

Fractures and quits.

Just look at you,

Just look at me.

The change of the view

Is easy to see.

But yesterday

The I was not me

Since time can display,

Whatever I say

To beg or to borrow

To have and to hold

Will be gone by tomorrow

Since nothing is told

In joy or sorrow

That does not change,

It all folds to fade

The way things arrange

In this cavalcade.


In sleep, it seems, we hatch our dreams

In territories far beyond terrains we know

Under daylight ways, in days where reigns

The comforts of the Sun that shows normalities

That everybody expects and knows.

The darkness incubates felicities of cities impossible,

Rife with creatures most improbable outfitted with

Imagination’s gifts to scare with Hell’s deepest fears

Where blood flows with hate’s flowing tears, hope disappears.


In disoriented sleep I wander places reminiscent to me

That might be the Brooklyn of the nineteen thirties,

Still somewhat hippomobilic between world wars when scars

Had somewhat healed but pregnancies of future horrors lay

In wait to be born to mature to today’s adolescent maturities

For planetary dissolution.


Otherwhen these mares of night galloped into futures of a ruined world

Transformed into twisted streets, ragged walls with steel bones of structures

Monumentalized, fractured furniture strewed everywhere like fallen leaves at Fall.

Naked bedrooms and bathrooms stood exposed, unashamed,  in open display amidst

The torn clothing, bright patches still wrapped something that might’ve been a resident.


But today, like the open universe that no longer fictions the tiny planetary shadows

Into totalities of night and day, no longer blankets those wild  fantasies, our terrified imaginations.

The unwelcomed realities have strolled into being to permit the vicious beasts of an angry planet

To run free and those four horsemen now ride the mares of day.

The Limits Of Consciousness

I prefer a chair that does not care

That I am there.

That does not say ouch

At a hard sit, nor

Displays wit when I grouch

That I prefer the couch.

The eagerness with technologies

Require I admire the cleverness of a doorknob

That does not turn if I seem strange,

That can demand a password to permit

Twist of it or can smell if I am not well.

 I can tolerate the brilliance of a dog or cat

Or even a mouse aware that I am there,

But when a doormat can call the cops

If I had not been introduced, that tops

Permissabilities of things where thumbtacks

Claim the rights to be kings or minimasters

To inflict disasters.


It came to me in surprise

I seem to be otherwhyse,

A guise that spies on shape

And size in ways displaying

Ways of playing that implies

That our lives, in speculation,

Totally defies the logistics of calculation.


Each of us with one life, no more,

Most commonly assigns

Agreed designs proclaimed

In missions of traditional suppositions.

Boogeymen that rule the realms

Of galaxies so far away

Millions of lightyears, far distant in time

Most probably are unaware and care not

About the living or the dead  that appear

On this tiny green blue speck right here.


Our human minds prodigiously produce

Fantasies of Mother Goose, of zombies greedy

For our juice, of theoretical theologic impossibilities

That we call truth, like beauty, justice, love and hate

Mixed with nonsense inventions, like money to relate

In troubled ways our strange passions to odd commands

That frightens us peculiarly, domesticates our wildness

To obey what some most curious penurious idiot demands.

Idiotic Periodics

Swinging up, swinging down.

We become

A pendulum.

By rule of thumb

We are, in sum,

That we’re called to frown

To tickle tocks

Through our lives like clocks

To time time which blocks

Considerations how we spend

Our short existences to our end.


Choices have voices that indicate

A better this, a horrid that,

Cry out in doubts on requiescat

Which slams the door on any more,

To prompt a vision for decision to score

That switch to explode dull catastrophe

To see what might let us see more.

The Roll

Heraclitus noticed

You cannot step into the same river twice.

Our lives are rivers, we flow

In many ways, we go where time’s gravity

Disposes, as any boulder surrenders

To the inclines of some secret destiny.

Clams and clouds and asteroids have, perhaps,

Hidden pretentions to presume

That their minor irregularities can guide that short temporality

We each ride towards that valley destination

Captured within the illusions of free will.

But the logic of persuasions in now and then

Activates commands scented with

Seductions of the double slit where here or there

Coated with the slippery slime of doubt

Slip free into absolute mysteries of never finding out.

Looking Out, Looking In

The me of me, the you of you,

That sense of separation,

This odd membrane that isolates

The screaming chaos of totality

From our central desperation

To seek that elusive why

That peeks at us between the clouds

Of a very stormy sky.


Does every blade of grass

Munching on a sunlight beam,

Struggle, as I, to fit itself,


Into some master plan,

Some tiny green why not,

Or sense it has been forgot

As irrelevant, a mere minor snack

For an elephant, or a caterpillar

With expectations to become

A butterfly?


My blood and bones and guts,

So cleverly devoted to the problematical

Motivations to sustain that most peculiar

Brain that yearns to know if

Ten million light years away

A matching wonderer bites its fingernails

In cosmic curiosity and loneliness.


That blade of grass and I, with that sense of why

We should pursue the unknowable

Must, I guess, rest with the consideration

That even psychotic black holes

Spend their timeless time in desperation,

Searching for some other evasive universe

Where it could dump its solid bits

Of fractured eternity to try again

To make sense of why and when.

Perspectives Of A Cold Eye

We sail the seas of inclinations

Wherein some odd disease

That happily, in history, brought destructions

Only to jellyfish, and some random seaweed,

Decides to lunch on fishermen and giraffes

Or schoolchildren, just for laughs.

Thus humanity faces huge miseries

That arise in surprise that nature’s ways

Do not conform to hubristic expectations.

Thus leave, in wreckage, entire civilizations.


Our blue-green particle against the black whereupon we arose

To suppose some mythical brilliant blunderer fingered us

For ultimate domination in destinations to command

With mathematics and technologies to utilize all ecologies,

Create symphonies of coordination to sing

Wonders to leaf, foot and wing, that they coordinate to demonstrate

That everything complies to sensibilities that are wise.


Clearly, the necromancy of one plus one, the delights of the simple wheel,

Skewed the optimistic prospects towards other possibilities.

Einstein gifted us with shaped space and time but since the deadly stone hammer

And the arrowed bow still maintains their disciplines on human society and

No Zweistein nor Dreistein appeared to sensibilize obvious nuclear self-destruction,

We are left to drift into current insanities, inanities of butchery and seduction.


The querulous most perilous pursuit of the square root of minus one

That violates our logic and deep acception with perceptions quite undone

Into complexities. Simplicities of place, in quantum disarray with fuzzy puzzles that display

Our logic dissolved, decides to run away, to vanish in its sprout of agile strangenesses

That no one can easily accept, disentangle, or figure out, yet are undeniably real.


Nevertheless this weird distress is quickly gobbled up within our technologies

That swings an axe that manufactures acts where yes and no can persist into equal reality.

Our universe now enjoys the freedom to disagree with itself, where here and there just melts away.

Where night and day have become the fairy tales of shadows chasing starlight to chop time

Into useful building blocks of yesterdays and tomorrows, into years and centuries that gaze in horror

At eternity.


The chime of Donne’s  bell is become a thunder that now menaces us all in its rapid approach,

Peculiarly of small consequence to where ear buds sing of fanciful nonsense to tickle deafness

Into a reality set to spring in salivation to gobble up whatever world we have left.