– the passenger queried where 

– in my hole of hell is this?

– Conductor thinks on mag-lev lines and says,

– no body knows. It’s a spirit thread.

What lie did you tell to get here?

What trick did you need to turn,

to get here…

– who’s asking I ask m’self

– here {past deadline}

here where the water’s all turned t’wine,

an’ not that nasty old Ripple, real wine,

sweet, sweeter than old Mogen David,

boiled down, redist- still, still ness, with a twist,

a sighing,

still says this

is the way this song is sung, first verse.

Second’s no worse, could be the chorus,

like breaths of fresh air, in the middle of a cry,

an unfeasible weeping for uncollected woe,

so we can sing some sense into someday,

if we get through this night alive.

– ha! and here comes the sun,

– peeking down from the edge..

Memories bid me stay awoken,

as though the night has passed,

– morning smells remind

– entwined reasons to leave be

Magic tricks smoke stained walls

and silvered mirrors flakes of black.

Finish one sentence, then begin

another, keep the prisons full

we need those pleas

for clemency,

to let the people know who is boss.

Jah,

jokin’ air of jongluers,

I acknowledge, I recall

I played Pressed Rat and Warthog,

on that rosewood recorder,

I gave to that guy doing his duty to God’s country,

reporting for the draft, 

a couple days after Earth Day One, 

when we was as one, unified in verity

with loved ones daily in the funny papers,

Ol’ Pogo, we seen the enemy we was to love,

-seen ’em, clear, here in this mirror,

– see, that is the enemy to love…

and my part loved ’em, even then,

yeah, even

then, this was where the road I walked was leading,

otherwise,

I’d be gone, and would have missed, the noise,

around bedtime, real, but similar 

to Fifties TV families,

now, here, last night,

these kids being all PBS+ leveled up average skill 

with X-box, PS-5, and Occulus 3, 

these little funny paper people

some times sing silly songs,

that I then learn is K-pop, 

but lyrics made up, while

running up two flights 

of stairs 

with ten feet

pounding a rhythm 

in my brain, – not that one- this

we will. We will,

pounding 

we will we will rock you, with

we emphasis, stomping and laughing, at will.

Genetically

odd these five kids, unchurched, sing together for fun.

—- I drifted into sleep,

and found this web had formed

tying something slept on together,

I suppose.

Already too long for short attention’s worth,

at a glance… this must be exponential.

I sub-pose,

smoothing the wrinkles, write, I think

the vision,

make it plain imaginable in common sense.

To tell the truth, incredible, is the lie, see,

my self, I tested this, I wondered

was it something in the water,

and I found,

if it was, it’s all been drunk by now,

still, submission to your own peace of mind,

that effort, gentle, easy entreaty, subtle

affect, in effect… we bear this in mind

read on, that’s

wise enough to call magic… to the nth. Amen.

Tomorrow all things are new, finish this then.

——————— 

Surface, seeming

level,

so this surface, solidity, under me,

or, not, only under me, I am not below.

So, from former state, dreamless sleep,

to now, a presence on the topside

of a boundless appearing plain,

flat out plain lit, I see,

indirectly, thus and so, I perceive no shade.

Abstracting a point that I think, a little,

is like me, a point picked to pull a thread

from a dreamed sequence, post hallelujah,

hallel and kosher substance, good

thought I, 

then bad was not a part of being,

instants

not being as  evil after being, once been

emptied as a piercing peep

hole point pops the bubble that was

my first dream in I can’t remember.

yet after then was now once more,

the daily chore, sing my blessing,

sing my silly song, and laugh,

I am, I was, and whether 

or not ever after

is ever so far from now, 

right now,

at this point in timespace. I have

science bits to make mean things I say.

—————— I think two poisons fit fine here,

taste as seen, is there a word for this,

flavor?

Salt is made of two collections of common parts,

some of that salt is in our tears, and snot, and sweat,

and possibly other fluids, blood, yes, that coppery

salty taste, so something in me thinks we act as salt

in the living soup. For sopping daily bread.

Almost uncanny… the scientist said

knowledge accumulated in stories seers tell,

inflationary reality in a mind divided.

Beauty and emptiness, us and all we may know,

at once,

upon this right moment, in this instance

instantly

taking shape as fine a the force that forms

functional gravity,

artful and beautiful, as well, it works,

so far

so good, billions upon billions bits and bits

joined intentionally,

or not,

just, iust to say, just now, meaning that instant

then, when a speckled spider creeping, as such do,

gliding may be a better word, eight points

of contact held still, I had likely never

noticed her, I think she seems sheish, as she caught

my eye far more infected, curiously, than ads in my feed.

Alan Goothe?

 Inflation Theory, faster, by far, whole

digits of diametrical exponential expansion, faster yet

vaster still the vessle holding this thought.

And the question spreads its curious reason, why

once more, do I feel this spider watching me,

listening to all my fans cooling all my chips,

hearing my lipid print marks leave prooof,

it was this one mortal -unwombed, mature male,

who perhaps holds evidence.

Once bit, twice shy… that kind of system, curious,

spiders thinking, we think, we learned, long ago…

Agur, the collector, he who sees he did not make this so.

He writes of spiders on king’s walls, and slaves

becoming kings, in turn causing the earth to tremble.

In my mind, I think it thinks, that spider, aware

where it is on my wall in my wedom reality,

digitally enhanced with memories in UHD.

Just that, a spider, as unique as any one living thing.

Substrate, eh, living on some level, stratified…

Spiritual reality, after all, we think.

We do, me and you,

we both read this already. This line.

There where did that time go, you know,

another eye read what one said, another POV

occurs as an instance of this,

living language holding this thought, as a thread,

aha, spidey sense, I reckon.