Saturday, January 20, 2018

All poets should allude to old situation comedies.



Abstaining


I will never vote again
till the Martians take over and then
I will choose the buffoon  who is prettiest
wear slogans for the goon that is fittest
for the job of reigning has-been

Not the type to use force
nor am I a work horse
it leaves me the need to meditate
to claim ability to levitate
to josh with the locals, of course

I will no longer endorse
anything more assuming than a horse
I will watch old reruns, of course
I'll watch Mr. Ed till the end

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Rhyming All Over the Place!

 Talking My Situation Rag
thrumming a tune in the mauve lagoon
bubbles forming nipples, taking air
zither with slide whistle
imported from Saskatoon
comes up with pelts and hair

raucous party below will be ending soon
been talk of liberation gone slow
chartreuse balloons rising from the party tunes
dancing with dance hall octoroons

friends and relations grown immune
to sun and sky and moon
living it up below
one minute before terminal noon

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Is You Is, Or Is You Ain't, Free Thinking?

Secularism and the organic need for spirituality meet and chat over tea and crumpets once a month in another solar system.   Heck, pals, I know that much from gazing in the crystal ball. I pick up some of their ruminations through tarot, seances, and most primarily, the crystal ball.  They're not total light weights beyond Alpha Centauri, yet I could use a bigger ball to render anything close to a determination.  Fuckers remain abstruse.  

 More pragmatically,  the system that's hosting my blog, titled "An O.K. Corral of Thoughts," runs the same bill of goods, same dilemma.  One may be both an atheist and a seeker. Or, too, a rigorous moralist.  Or a jagg off.  All things considered, like the PBS slogan.  A nonbeliever is at liberty to engage in prayer, to any object, any purpose.   He/she can join any believer at all in prayer, much the way lawyers and senators can call a courtesy vote.  A courtesy vote is a shit-bird practice in which wealthy, powerful people take voluntary leave of their moral spine at the behest of a corrupt and desperate colleague.  Conversely, to join a group in prayer is good civics. I can join any group at all in asking Jesus to yield a free powder blue Cadillac to any  & all deserving souls, mine included, if there is such a thing.  I can share the damp, chill emotions when the car doesn't magically appear.  And the mania of their next spiritual initiative.    


On this planet, I'm a hermit with a flair for ratiocination.  Like a gardening tool, I like to put this trait to use when the weather permits and the urge presents itself. There is room for both natural and supernatural, everywhere and anywhere.  Either precept can hide under a thimble.    Though one can't hide the Empire State Building under a thimble.   There's some aspects of materialism people should try to straighten out.  I've seen a few believers fuck up their finances for this spare, paltry thing.  Jesus doesn't pay the bills, stop bullets in mid-air, 
 or take out the garbage.   

One can be passively respectful towards the religious practices of any and all, in a diversified, civil United States of Pure Attainable Pleasure.   Free-thinking, such as is identified by some with the Founding Fathers, is a not-too-aggressively endorsed watchword here.  All precepts and watchwords are small enough to print on a standard business card, and all can be printed, online, for about ten bucks.  Validity is about two inches by three and a half, usually on semi-gloss plain card stock. 

Flag Counter

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Duplicity
come and get me, Flipper
dolphin don't leave me in the plastic in the ocean
whip up suds and tow away the island
composed of discarded notions

Don't be cajoled by the fishing pole
the diving bell
the spear gun
the swell sporting gear from Sebastopol
you can trust me, television fish
to grant your wish

Now you can't catch me, Mr. Dolphin
don't need you any more
and I'm long gone
don't be sore
 Attrition


dwindling has become a hobby
losing weight as I stand in the lobby

losing touch has become an ambition
silence, an act of sedition

allowing the house to decline
rewarding inverse of a diamond mine

I've let all tired morals
grow porous and pink as sea coral

as snakes and pack-wolves lunge
we grow tired and throw in the sponge

Saturday, January 6, 2018

More poems. Admit it. You need them.


Follicles
I've had this obsession with hair
falling from a barber's chair

and with it's progress on the face
a beard might improve social grace

on the head it might make me a tiger
handy when climbing the Eiger

on others it drives the libido
hirsuite propeller on the wan torpedo

does this make one a perve?
why no. the very nerve

Thursday, January 4, 2018

essay: The Mind is an Appliance, And It Needs Some Grease to Work Right

Holy shit, I still get acid flashbacks, and the tragedy is that they keep getting shorter. It's been so long since Owsly. Leary passed with the true calling. Even that sabre headed shrink from Canada, the one who said LSD is great stuff, is either dead or infirmed by now, so no one gives a flying fuck if I have to go to my grave without ever having another decent acid trip. Fucking tragedy. It's never been more needed.

Miraculously, I was having the best, brightest and longest flashback just last night, like a gift from Jerry Fucking Garcia. I still have a few of his neck ties. Next time I steal a Brooks Brother's suit, I'll make a point of accessorizing for drugs. Back in the day it was cricket to talk to as many people as possible about the drug experience, now people don't talk about shit other than Game of Thrones, so you can see that fantasists are in liberation-limbo. Free the mind, my ass. I was alone in my hospital chair, best furniture in the hovel, watching old television reruns. LSD is a godsend to people who have little to do but suffocate in the arm pits of yesteryear. I was watching a rerun of Welcome Back, Cotter. 

It was the episode in which the blond teen bombshell, Bambi, moves from L.A. to the Bronks, enrolls at Low Comedy Central Highschool, and creates havoc among the horny teens. At one point in the episode, I thought Arnold Horschak was going to spray Vinnie Barbarino with an AK, and maybe take out Juan Epstein, the Jewish/Puerto Rican hoodlum who charmed us all so. He should have nailed Beau DelaBarre first, in my opinion, but Arnold didn't really have a gun, it was a hallucination. Maybe it was his lunch bag. Time and space is plastic when one is tripping. There's no way of confusing relativity with shithead stasis. The lines separating Twinkies from Tomahawk missiles perforate , like the lower portion of your heating bill, and carefully tears away. The universal mind cannot live by common perceptions alone. 

As usual, Horschak doesn't get poon, Vinnie learns something only a television comedy can teach, the foolishly handsome Beau comes to realize that he is better off with lower hanging fruit, as beauty is a bear trap. He decides to date someone homely. But the universalist learns more than the object of observation. You learn history from fossils, a fossil learns nothing from you. And a book on the shelf is always beating it's meat. Only the mind can deliver you from cognitive paralysis, and the poor mass of reason needs something extra these days. Acid. It should be legalized. It's fab.