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

Universe theater


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 joys 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.


Two Birds

Birds at night


Two wild birds fly,

One white, one black,

Across the wide blue sky

To ask the Sun


But the Sun would not reply,

But turned red.

It fell into night to hide

Behind the stars

In search of


The birds flew back

In the black

Under the calm eye

Of the Moon

And waited in their tree

Amongst the leaves

For tomorrow.

But when tomorrow came

It turned into today

And today

No one knows


This Morning, Today



This morning am I fingers and toes

A nose and one open eye to blink

At an exploding sunlight beam to

Flash away the fragment of a dream.


It was far long ago I rocked on a wave

In a quiet shore, a patch of green slime

At a time, the planet was still young.

Still a bit tipsy, newborn.


Memory is slim of my leather wings, my claws

And needle toothed jaws, cloud looping days.

And then, then I became other things.

A tree, quite tall, a fish, small, with transparent fins.

Something not quite octopus, but getting there.

A bear.


These variations demanded by situations

Where nutritions provided new conditions.

To be alive one must contrive ingeniously.

But today, I need a pair of eggs, sunny side fried

With a buttered toasted roll and coffee and the internet.


Time will not sit still, and my current species is quite insane.

This brain cannot sustain a simple conformation

To the necessary fundamentals, and this lovely planet writhes

In the disdain, in the pains and chaotic confusions.

It may be too late, but we must innovate, make things straight.


We cannot flee from the seas which run in through blood,

From our birds and humming bees and green fields and flowers.

It is here our souls arose, this place is our life that pleads for our needs.

This life in me is still tough enough to sink its grip into this loving soil

Keep it alive to survive, to change and rearrange itself, it can, it can,

It must.


I Don’t Suppose



I don’t suppose it’s popular to say

That soon this planet won’t

Have any place to stay where we

Can avoid the heat or not drown

Or have a glass of water to drink.

I would think everyone in town

Might become a bit upset, chew a lip

Or fret their kids could not get

A place to live outside of Mars

Where there’s hardly any air and the trip

Is quite expensive, accommodations

Not extensive, dust storms all the time,

And certainly, no place to swim.

No doubt, there’s no traffic problem yet

But jobs may be difficult to get and the scenery

Seems totally devoid of any greenery.

The price of vegetables or a glass of wine

May be something of a problem.

I would, of course enjoy the lack of bedbugs

And such nuisances but considering their ingenuity

And flair for travel, no doubt,

They would soon be there.

Considering the lack of familiar community

They might be a comfort in familiarity

Or, perhaps, soon,

I should consider the Moon.

The Snuff

galaxy clock


It’s not rough to be preoccupied

With the snuff.

Concerned with what has been earned

Or learned

Or might be burned.

This is planetary stuff,

The worldly twirl

To chop continuity into day and night.

There are no Wednesdays in the race

Of time through space.

It’s spinning peekaboo

Until it’s through.

Dust accumulated into the Sun

And gravity ignited the flame,

The game begun

For a few billion years.

I can only grin as people panic

In manic distress

Over cosmic progress.

Existence borrows time

And the loan must be paid.

The clockish cavalcade begins and ends.

Initiations and terminations are revelries

Of suppositions.

Conditions change, nothing strange

That we are temporary.

Time is a puff of possibility

And entropy grinds up minds

Like all other stuff

Into the final snuff.

It’s quite enough.


If Then



This or that can be something of a smear

When definitions are not clear.

Midnight may erase a day, but time does not pause,

Nor the previous disappear.

I am not just the sum of someone else deposited

In today to be modified, transfigured

Out of happenstance. But as well

Consistencies of time and place flood, preset,

To collide and sculpt the available

Into keys to inevitabilities. Schrödinger may claim

This is an open-ended game but even probabilities

Are obedient to the possible.

The gifts or curses that crash through seem directed

By temporal afflictions out of addictions of personality.

We each are shaped to accept or deny

What might transmogrify our elusive reality.

We are more than simple summing

We are now and more.

We are becoming.