capture the spirit of the story, any one,
but say, this day, in
the story of life, as life is, ever, if life is
in a book,
so we can go look,
woulda coulda shoulda didn’t we
almost
make it happen

what?? Nothin’, jes’ wishin’
wonderin’ if ever is as plain as day.

signs and wonders, every witness said
I was there,
ask any boomer from Boston north,
they all say, Woodstock, yeah
I was there, or not…
not… I got no beef
with the survivors
of the Seventies.

I skipped that decade, my road
went around that crystal mountain,
where the guides at the bottoms sold maps,
to many
of the only possible ways
to the top.

I bought one that I may not have bought,
had I read Elmer Gantry, the novel
which poured
the same spirits that drive revivals,
through the filter
of Aimee McPherson,
which just so happens, was the filter
Kathryn Kuhlman used and Susan Alamo
twisted further, with born-again Jew
into a tight right screwed down cult,
of the common Seventies variety,
to this day some cling to the letter
of the cult code of total faith in GOD,
or so they say,
those
survivors who share the fears of loss,
for confessing I lied, you know,
I spoke that which is not right.
I spoke of that as right as not. Nada matters,
if
good did not win, prior to the first lie.
AY. yeah Y not- what do you first lie?
I did not— yes, always, it wasn’t me
who started this war.

Real lived history yanks your-ingling to forget.

If my love can emanate, if I meditate, and test
the known effect, asking you,

did you feel that, like a roll over your solar plexus,
a gentle thrill, like
you know,
what if…

Step away, listen, a little,
hear a bit of Santana, think of Torres,
Phoenix. I have not been to Phoenix,
since, a trip in 1969,
that loops through a time, Tom Morgan, bass.
Mike Scott drums, Mike Torres, lead guitar,
the name of the band
No Room at the Inn.
— radio man
All the stories wind around the may pole,
hear the cowbell in the background,
send a wannabe to the mic,
hear him holler then makem pray
three to five times a day,
mini-mim mime meme be, like
do like,
become like
– steve jobs, the myth
“stay hungry, stay foolish”-

as a man thinks, in his heart, so is he,
so am I as I think I am
I think I am as far as it goes, mortally,
happy is another word for blessed, which
is stretched from bliss, that has some
eudemonic feel, feels too good,
but it is. Happy, same idea acted out, exactly.

Pretend you got famous, and got back,
with nobody knowing what you did,
save that somebody did it
for the future.

Did the good
for goodness sake
and called all outs in, free,
men, wombed and un, liars whose tongue
no man,
ever wrote in letters,
each teller of tales, bherer of new knowing,
was called by a visitor, days of visitation,
when the winds of next ripple the pond,

come on, children, come and learn,
learn to take the pressure and not pop.
– access to tools
– take out the thymus signal search
– we lost the thymus position to entropy.
first conception to final
fungible carrier of the spirit and image
of all the best who go before u
u u u is good to me u is big as us, a we, in awe
a state of ggggreat good surrounding me

sssnuggllle soft, ssserpent wise, coo’
coo’ as ever after we
made up this pact with the spirit that does,
cover the earth with the same wind,
every where air is,
as we all now know and consider true,
from a conserved point of view,
common to all mankind since,
Stewart Brand’s First Whole Earth Catalog
_ righteous invisible html used right __link.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whole_Earth_Catalog
there and back,
you know, the simultan-aity of the Hobbit and Brand,
and Bucky and Leary, et al,
– during then, there was the Turing Valid,
– OS set in minds of susceptible yout’s
The Hippy Canon,
– Starts with Heinlein, I think,
– or A. Huxley, but research says
– it was Dick and Jane, that tipped the percepticon
Now we all remember real things,
things we all saw occur,
as life left us signs, saying softly, walk this other
way, use the tools, if god wanted u to fly,
he would feed you curiosity.
we know what starship earth is propelled by,
we assume, as a sorting said to be folly,
we being and doing and becoming
are the reason why won, over why not.
http://library.ssec.wisc.edu/spinscan/images/1024cc/ATSIII_10NOV67_153107.jpg

cover photo of the whole earth,
chapter in the book of life,
looking
back or
down or toward, see that white in the clear air,
there, swirling around the blue fluid,
swirling with higher density saline soulocean,
shimmering lakes and rivers,
the green and brown is the bottom
of the sky,
watch, sidereally
watch, poets in the past,
they can only imagine us seeing this,
Google Earth and Sandbox Universe, expand
into nonsense,

or turn inward here, and consider how rare
actual earths are.
Rarer than those who know your role.

Abide with me, Circe, was it?
Life is a journey, travel was hard, until
not long ago,
but easy almost everywhere,
after Y2K,
proved we could invent bullshat jobs,
from a bull market, and the ai side
saw the high spotting,
smoothing the knotholes
in the tree of life,
-and the ant in my amygdalic wwwd,
circuitry for optimum re use of good wood,
IKEA, of course
sawdust morphs to good Norwegian wood,
simple from the report, energy is wasted
here, seeing the
curled shavings as planks were planed,
to drawing boards and table tops
from unsorted shapes
of things that formed plans for
the fruiting branches that pushed outward
from inside, under pressure, inside from
the tree of life itself, in the pre-sure-made
batho-sphere, we live and breathe and habe
our vibing on-in-on-in

at most fear here is claustro- pop –
say
y’know, ain’t no grave,
ain’t no grave,
gonna hold my spirit down, watch
smoke signals in the sky,
by and by
we see we
got good seats on the only train in the galaxy,
that allows poets
in republics, just
to keep the order itching
for change,
and disgusted
to the good-gut biome
with the rot.