Blather of Sorts

This is, by all accounts, a magical story. Great riches and greater horrors occur and reoccur. The teller is privy to the games the mind plays. A favorite song of the teller’s, “You Are My Sunshine,” could be hummed at any point in this story, so hold on: C/C7/G/F!

Also. Don’t forget that whole cultures are in the process of change; it could be difficult to hang on to never mind even find what is useful. The teller tells the warriors “Titan up.” To the Quartermasters the teller reminds, “Don’t ignore the Trojans. Be safe!”

What might have happened beyond the obvious to Malcolm Brighton, Pamela Brown, and Rodney Anderson aboard the “Free Life” on that blue-skied September day in 1970 remains a mystery. Their flight to freedom could be part of this magical story.

Hungry brains like Ginkgo bilboa, Bacopa monnieri, huperzine A, and Phosphatidylserine according to a site on the Internet. As for cholesterol, it is the size and number of the particles that is now seen as important to a proper diagnosis.

Like most magical stories can, this one makes things disappear.


Important Stuff

Here I am half another year older but only a day or two wiser

With my glasses off I know the world plays by different rules

Distances look further away. Other senses don’t compensate

What I hear goes fuzzy, distorted; my steps exercise caution


Yet there are times when what I’m eating is so delicious

that I close my eyes while I chew, and drift into a fantasy

starring you at your best.

I’d thank you with roses and scotch

but, I know better.


Love and sex have a lot to do with marriage – though,

not always with each other. Marriage, an agreement recognized and established by the state to keep track of the patriarchal money trail, calls for powers of love (how else to endure its difficulties?), trade, family                                         (possibly, but not always)

A compact between equals [at least one might argue that we’re all equals] entails agreeing to those vow(s) made. I’ll look in my bible to see where the marriage vows are presented, as some churches declare. To some marriage is between God, a man, and a woman. It’s been practiced by religion long before (they infer) it was codified by law. The marriage I speak of is a legal definition determined by the polis.


Relax. Nobody has to marry some one

of their own sex, some bodies can

if they want to.


Fertility Clinics, Adoption Agencies, Marriage Counselors, Divorce Lawyers, in this capitalistic country, all will remain busy. Score ten for the economy!

Charlie Hebdo?

I guess when non-believers outnumber the believers; that is, if and when the legal modern state, secular in its nature, supersedes “the law” of historical religions, then killers will be arrested for the crime of murder not some ambiguous term like “terrorism.” I hope the change takes place soon before more are killed under a pretense rife with psychological problems. But I don’t put much faith in hope these days.

When Science upsets Religion, Science is usually on the right track. Historical figures gifted with god status remain prime fodder for satire, especially in the parts of this world that have been through dada and surrealism.

What recourse does one have when offended? Has this issue not been discussed before in world courts? Let’s reiterate the law and the differences: Is it, the rights of your fist end just before somebody’s jaw? Or there’ll be no hitting, even hitting back? That thin line between thought and action wavering like a loopy sine wave in the green light of the oscilloscope.

Do radical believers subscribe to Charlie Hebdo? If so offended, could they not get their money back? I figure I could go walking out in my neighborhood and find something offensive. Probably I could walk by that whatever offends me day after day until I really feel offended, until I’m driven to demand justice? Oh, there’s a word filled with philosophical differences; for instance, if “justice” is getting what you deserve, then who decides who deserves what? Who decides depends on who has the power to enforce such a decision, I suppose.


Actually becoming a “walking antique” is different than in the song, or at least as it felt when I first listened to the song those many years ago. Back then it was an interesting image – an intriguing putting into motion; that is, that which is static, like a “still” (a photograph), which is animated like in the move from montage to film. Almost cartoonish.

An antique, usually at least fifty-years old, is generally an object; it is not expected, except in Rube Goldberg apparatus or wind-up cars (and now real cars…Model T’s and A’s!), to move. It sits there and ages. Like a flower, a hedge or a tree – all of which do move as they grow…so no, like something man-made back when such things were made solid and lasting, which is part of how they came to be classified as antiques; they’ve lasted.

Humans make antiques. So to become one is a sign of what? In one sense an antique is sturdy and well built, or at least well taken care of by someone. It often has value beyond the sentimental.

Pushing my late sixties, I’ve seen the aborted looks of the younger generation; that disinterested turn of the eyes. It’s okay, I probably did it too, but now I know how it really feels – sad and comic, at once. It’s better they turn away – especially the artistic ones.

The Millennials tend not to pay much attention to an antique, walking or otherwise. Could be their lose as it was, no doubt, mine.

“But how did that little prick see it so clearly over fifty years ago?” I can hear my long gone friend posing this question. We’d be bundled up, walking in the snow, and I’d have no rational response beyond it was a lucky juxtaposition of verb repositioned as an adverb. “Ah, the brilliance of the image,” Sebastian, the weimaraner, might interject as the snow accumulated.

For Many, I Suppose



As I age and come to terms with things I probably won’t do again or even get to do (like having sex or sky diving), I realize among them is the probability that I may not see you again. It’s been a long time, and I don’t even know where you now are. We had our times together. We lost touch. I guess, as some would say, hey, that’s life.


Well, I’m not going to spend the rest of the day listening to singer/ songwriters complain about what they notice going or not going on. I seem to manage that okay on my own.


In the past months a few of the recent manuscripts have been cleaned up and formatted and printed and saved in files I can attach to online submissions. The last three years summed up in poems, essays, and stories… Now, let’s see who might help them become published. Beggar and persuader – the dual positions an artist must assume. Yet the work stands or falls on its own.


But I didn’t push for much of that – what happened, happened. There wasn’t a lot of planning. Life led me along – as it does for many of us. We’re lovers and then we’re no longer lovers. Rarely seemed to manage those transitions very well.


Anyway, I’m still in the same place – I’m visible. I’m not in the phone book but I am on the Internet. Google me. Come for a visit.

Writing to Silence


That yearning to do something big, new…something that’d catch the attention of people all around the world, comes and goes several times this past afternoon as a few gusts of wind, a breeze mostly, spin the garden pinwheels in ways that remind me of that spring I got to sit five or six days in a row watching a few trees blossom, sitting almost in zazen thinking that perhaps my time as a journey man was over and before I could weigh the worth of that realization it was let those thoughts go and away they went leaving me watching leaves unfold blossoms in a fast forward turned down real slow with my breath exhaling small puffs of grayish-white clouds. It was then that I beheld that God is not a person – no relation at all to my species, surely something other than one of us to have gained such god status – or so I thought for dozens of years.

Now I see that I’m not hungry enough, not obsessed enough, not angry enough…and certainly not competitive at all. These are traits necessary to my once upon a time career. No wonder the paycheck was so small and infrequent.

I quit that job yeas ago. When you can do what you want, it can take some time to figure out what it is you want to do… And that time is pleasant. Enjoy it! But don’t forget to find out what you want to do.

Of course you better figure such a path would also be edgy. Yep. Try to enjoy the process as best as your family and friends will let you. And if you are an orphan, friendless in this world, you might want to read some Charles Dickens rather than this. I understand. The miscommunication is nobody’s fault – neither yours nor mine.

Communicate! Say something! I’m listening.


Write On! Right Arm! Farm Out!


As a character in my life story, I think it’s fair to ask, “What do I want?” What answers is not the must of post-modern revisionists’: “Show the soul-less soul, be textually self-conscious…”


By 1986 I am ex post contemporary, for sure, no adolescent “the brass ring I’ve been chasing…” crap here.  It is not that this is it, but that this is this: each passing hour, day, week – so familiar.


In these parts of five seasons, we’re in winter…at that point where spring sounds mythic – our lives forever cold in these frozen eons of boxes within circles within wheels within…


Sun rise. Sun set. Even in sleep the body aches, the mind breaks…


Sun rise. Sun set.


But I suppose there’s more I want…either to get or to do. I’m getting to do what lets me feel like I’m doing what I want to be doing.


Things change every moment – and just how long is a moment? What gets resolved remains unsolved: “poo tweet!”  (What was Vonnegut’s first name…oh yeah, Kurt! Yes, yes…”Make me young!”)


What is happiness? How do we get it? How do we keep it in a world of constant sorrow? Or have we really forgotten what is happening?


If it is interesting to me, and if I wish to share that beyond myself, then this writing is filled with that desire – one that’ll be long gone by the time you read this [A concept that I’ve mentioned before].


I want song and friends and health too! Hundreds of dollars each and every day, and good food and drink, and always a safe comfortable place to sleep to let the aches restore themselves, the mind to rest and dream without waking me until the sun rises through our hallway window.


Then up and at ‘em! Let’s see how we can do today even better