figure on a mountain


From world milieu ourselves withdraw

The funds of individuality

All wrapped in dermal packaging;

The brains and bones and guts and blood

Conjoined for sensuality.


The membrane skin with holes for ports,

Where sense and substance travel through

Responds to pressures in and out.

It isolates the point in time

That splits the old off from the new.


This point in time that indicates

Where I and eye sits through the storm

To sift, select and designate

The matter and the energy

That gives the world intent and form.


It seems to choose the way it goes,

But choice is made with motivation,

Not random, but conditioned by

The structure made with past constraints.

No fluke, but iron instigation.


Therefor this witted witness rides

A steed it can’t control, subdue,

Through tides of time on lines of space

Down destined avenues to race.

Merely, just a point of view.




Rigidities Of Quidities

hammer and naul


To cause effect,

Select, direct a consequence

Out of inevitabilities

Requires, one might think,

Quantities of mind agilities.

But, the mental frame suspects,

Temporal rigidities elects

That choice from out that central voice

Is neither plastic nor elastic

Where cause has steel bindings to effects.


When the hammer hits the nail

The spike cannot choose to resist.

The equations for persuasions command

Penetrations out of fixed solidities.

Choice is not an issue. Time obliges

All results. There is no this or that to disagree.

The mind must mind. It is not free.



Dinosaur Thoughts



Their brains were small, no doubt,

And highly occupied with the mechanical contraption.

How to push and pull it round about –

Its gigantic bony levers, meaty pulleys.

When to stuff the monstrous hungry gut

And get it into sunlight for the heat.

Not much circuitry to spare, but

Somewhere inbetween the gross mechanical controls

There must have been some thoughts.

Lumpy clumsy pleasures, happinesses in the musty air

Before the force of hunger thwarts

The heavy aimless mind’s meanderings.


Gone, all gone, the meat, the bone, the mind.

There is nothing left to find.

For death is not evadable

And we are all biodegradable.



leaves in sunlight


What lights the fuse on dull gray days

Encased in dead routine

To set the spark within the ways,

Fire the machine?


For all of us are tied to each

To integrate the whole

Where needs and habits try to reach

And leach the central soul.


To leave the clockwork outer skin

Which functions socially

While spirit slumbers deep within

Thoughtless to be free.


What lightning strikes through discipline

To stop the clock at work,

To penetrate down deep within

To still the mindless clerk?


What trigger snaps the beast awake;

Can rouse the sleeping child?

Can energize the mind to make

It active, free and wild?


To break from out the cardboard hull,

Explode the fragments wide?

To grasp the world, sharp and full,

Release the self inside.


Perhaps a patch of sunlit leaves,

A photo old and brown

To turn to dust what one believes

And crash the temples down.






The world is old, is old, is old,

Of broken stones

And splintered bones

And shattered shells

And dust.


The rivers clog with silted hopes

And fractured dreams

And stunted thoughts

And dated gods

And rust.


The fragments churn and drift to sea,

The trilobites

And dinosaurs

And Belshazzar

And you

And me.


Little Paul


shoes and hat

Little Paul,

No one at all

In anybody’s book,

Had one skill

To make you thrill –

He sure as Hell could cook!


He started out on common things

Like broccoli and onion rings,

Salad greens, al dente rice,

Crisp potatoes fried in oil,

Carrots gently brought to boil,

Frozen pudding served on ice.


He mastered every way to make

Cookies, candies, fluffy cake,

And then invented variations

Made with strange unknown spices,

Assembled them with odd devices,

Evoking happy exclamations.


Enrolled in schools in Paris, France,

He cooked with charm, elegance,

Learned techniques about the oven,

Mastered bar-b-ques and grills,

Sharpened knives, spun pepper mills,

Was picked to cook for a witch’s coven.


There they made strange demands

With screeching voices, waving hands.

They gave him rather suspect meat

To be cooked with blood and slime.

It was, he thought, a messy time,

But he succeeded, – no defeat!


This warped his tastes, his ambitions.

He cooked with no inhibitions.

His culinary spectrum grew.

He steamed old shoes, unskinned mice.

He baked a horrid cake with lice.

Anything arcane and new.


His feel for strangeness matured, grew.

There was no thing he wouldn’t do.

A flying saucer came from space.

Odd things came out to see our world.

Paul fried them up with bacon, curled,

And sprinkled them with thyme and mace.


One day they found his kitchen cleared.

It seemed that Paul had disappeared.

They found his shoes up on a shelf.

His greatest challenge had been met.

His reputation had been set.

For Paul’s last dish was himself!








weed 3

It cannot be gobbled up by cattle

Nor does it grip the mind

To shock beauty, make mind rattle,

But, but, nevertheless it persists.

There is glory in being tough

And in this world that can be enough.


They congregate in masses.

Fling persistence in our face

Mingle with the moss and grasses

Stand strong and vibrant, no disgrace

In demanding to exist, to fling their seeds

In total disregard for our needs.


Humanity manicures the entire planet.

Poisons, chops away the eagerness of anything alive

To leave sterile extents of sand and granite

To be paved to await industries to arrive.

No consequence if humanity is insane.

Life prevails. This plant makes that quite plain.