The deserts are blooming around the globe.
Northern climes, only
nature of times, seed time
and harvest, wobbledy world,
feeds my kind, year round.
– edge of Baja approaches
Sunrise
Red ocotillo, waving under
orange jello sky,
as the sun tops the Chocolate mountains,

Salience – as a leaping hart, or gazelle,
were it pulling one’s foveal focus, the point
where attention is properly paid,

look me in the eye, says the teacher to the child.

Look me in the eye and lie, telling me, the child
I was, telling me to say “I know.” That’s all
you need to say,
you know, you are me in miniature, at this point,
you have no way
to know way too much more than I, at this point.
You have not survived next enough times.
This is after Jesus, and after Mani, and the hermits.
Re-alized, re-coknown, co-gititations,
got it… wedom of me and you,
2022, the future of all our pasts,
yours in Mali, or Mongolia,
mine in Mohave waste lands, left after the gold
standard eroded, leaving slag piles
in places named Baghdad,
and Chloride, neither convenient to railroads, in truth,
thus both were edgy blemishes, protrusions,
scars on proud flesh, proof, our homes
once held vast worth, due to rare-ity
from buried seed of the contemplation- spring,
trigger-snap-twig,
spring in the Mohave 2022, Sonoran, too;
all the ocotillos in bloom, surprise, I have, I think
seen this once,
timing is every thing,
the voice telling you, there is no plan

here and now, Easter Sunday, around the world…
wherever ocotillo cousins grow, they bloom
and humming birds delight in the flavor,
so so much more to the need of bees,
than the simple syrup bait on balconies…

The redness along the bottom of Laguna Cahuilla

• gaze, from above,
  • drone’s eye, or better, but not much,
  • an eagle’s eye, or a little black fly eye…
  • didit, all mental, little or no cognosis
  • upto now
    for about the space of half an hour,
    perhaps while watching your eggs being sought,
    at the palace of the presiding head
    of the degrees – each inside more elegant
    than the last, each opening casting out
    more open-essence, whiffs
    of incense salience rising, smoke
    of we being lowly, here to watch out for
    the labor requisition, readers of facts
    found where children of the elite,
    eh, ought point something casts
    of thousands, extras for the mob scene, fleeing then
  • those lessons, selected for those elite
  • are lessons, free to learn, save for will to learn,

called for in the new, restructured,
paradigm holding common sense,
as in a double minded, extra unstable, but quick
to turn -mortal man feature, see, nottaflaw.
Patient perfection
to see a way –
to yonder, the other side… jump
– the poor cry out –
– from a dry and thirsty land

we imagine, we think, new kind of air, jello consistency,
we attract attention,
so we shut our mouth, but not our eyes, all this from
– ah, detail, prepositioner within
– breaks in two, hinging on withstanding pre-sense
Do we think slow with
in slipping
slowly slowly the salience of it all, jumping
splat
into air I breathe as it were the hoof slag, cooled in the pot.

Gluing feathers to the fanny of a sailor once, so far as I know,
that was done in lieu of flogging, as a badge of shame.
Uriah Levy did that, and was whatcha might call
shamed for his mercy, or per hap, call it
castigated – and I might, as well, had I some mere
inkling as to what the dickens is in such a reaction.
Flogging was tradition, proof you could take it,
was the only way in, for the cabin boys.

Yo ho ho, a pirate’s life f’ me.
Ag me on… golden signs and wooden nickels.
Ai, at my finger tips, winner of all spelling bees,
from castus “pure” (see caste)

• agere “to do”
  (from PIE root *ag- “to drive, draw out or forth, move”).
  The notion behind the word is
  “make someone pure by correction or reproof.”

From https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=castigated+

Water. Yes, life is moist. Moist as fog.
Low clouds, little help.
– fans of a fantasy cry to the king

The Salton Sea, needs a thousand year flood,
with no dams upstream;
to revivify
Cahuilla. Newsom, as head of state,
governor of life as we live it, states
we can step up our game.
– headlines- bottom line
– what will it cost if we do?
– Less than the last war, at first.

We can bring this thousand year flood,
the cost is astronomical,
the cost of a war,
a little one, like Iraq, that would do it,

let us imagine, we do it,
we fill Cahuilla, straight from the sea,

salton, saliency jumps out, consider me,
in a word, a label, truth being told,
salt is good,
by measure – homeostasis, thirst regulated,
– food grows where water flows
– farmers feeding birds and insects,
– feed me.
salton water is not what fills Cahuilla,
what fillt Salton Sea
was a broken channel,
irrigating Imperial Valley,
when the dunes were bridged

by a wooden road, not Iron, wood.

to preserve a way of life that runs back a century

From https://www.bloomberg.com/features/2015-imperial-valley-water-barons/

the wild waters from the snow,
The aqueduct was not to Roman standard,
forty feet below mean sea level,
the salt was awaiting
solution, moistness osmosis
salt sucks, informs the last bond to break
the long kiss, under the sun’s thirsty gaze
salivate, wait, soon something breaks,
and all the dammed things, break
free, we
are flushed,
sudden rush of blood,
to face, face to face the answer in my time.

Agree Ain are eggs in a wedom,
and we can determine taste in the white.

- happy.

Ashtorothean eggs, and maddened hares
– those formed some passtimes,
– post to post ifity trials
Ifs, of a non-confrontational flavor, If, as an
entity of possible, an I
structure informing, becoming a matter
we mind
if it takes hold and forms reasons
to exist

in the open, critical theory in hermissionaries,
mit kein
andere kopf, nur mein, mein, mein
Ich denke
nicht wahr? Aber, but our father’s,
– hordes of idlewords prayed
– paid utter ritual in vanity, a mass said for your
– personal profit through patient persistance
– never doubt,
they say to the double minded offspring born
with the knowing itch already on, flickering, static,

but watch, it is not chaos,
a pattern e-mergence-exit, ways out
ifs in peace and only peace,
settled long, and calm
when you pray
that little thing, my children said, in protest
against the ifityness construed
from “now, I lay me down, to sleep…” and so on.
Our fathers, same as used
for easy penance, on broken boys.
– wen unrecognized as prayer in a Latin mass home.
– My children were unbaptized unca-techized, lost.
Magically, not so, I say,
we judge the message, and leave the messengers be.

Our, we think means, we all are offsprung from our parent,
Abba, maybe Mama, first utterance, we debate,
as if God cared.
Wisdom laughs, I fear, he does…
we ache to know,
some loins-like-ours having being,
an entity that replicates, from something,
akin to an egg,
odd, that the egged man may know this,
we give the point

to chaos causing some beautiful paths
for the price of adapting a certain self centered
POV.

Sure, you do. You could not have come this far,
save you savvy fluid thought forms, informants
form inside, subconscious you, un conscience,
only if
your frame
of re-inference interferes with clear signal
from my man, Radioman, guest appearance
manifest in an ‘istoric test for truth, in experience –
some kinda purple acid, roof of the fishnet factory

oh, I love to hear this story, retold, in never grows old,
but I did.
That was long ago, the proud prince of vast lava flows,
mine to roam, with my dog and my friends,
and once, with my given son, I watched him,
take the hard way,
I did not caution, careful, but
I stood below, and watched him climb,
a boy creeping, slow-flow as windborn moss, up

to where he knows, himself,
“I did it.”

Blogging, I suppose, I am,
consuming paper and ink, virtually
capturing fluid thoughts that fit old ideas,
virtual, as can any man
within a bifurcated mind
form from formative, focus points,
burrs, thorns, grasping hookss

high-minded, poet who cannot really
take part, – being beyond the belly of the big fish
– hook line
– and sinker
life’s little pleasures consume the frame
of focus, turned within,
upto now, a puzzling pre-position, now, within
this
dialog, this with-versation, verily, as a man,
wombed or un,
my trail reminds me off the icy trail,
of some psychic means, used to warn listeners

those who go down into the deeps,
report sights, our eyes must imagine, yes, this
is what
Zeke says he seen, the inbetween.

Take whole,
woven goods, remnants, rock bottom, great value

live and learn, money to burn, being of mind to be
richer than those old kings, whose stores
got swallowed and spat back, sniffed
and swallowed again, spat right back, like

seasonal lies, reoccur, in communities, with common
red tent rituals, ladies meetings weeks,
insynchronous ritual, timed with tides, as much as moon.

Who last remembered a grunion run?