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,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Salience – as a leaping hart, or gazelle,
were it pulling one’s foveal focus, the point
where attention is properly paid,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
look me in the eye, says the teacher to the child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2026 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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
here and now, Easter Sunday, around the world\u2026
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\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The redness along the bottom of Laguna Cahuilla<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2026 jump
– the poor cry out –
– from a dry and thirsty land<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yo ho ho, a pirate’s life f’ me.
Ag me on\u2026 golden signs and wooden nickels.
Ai, at my finger tips, winner of all spelling bees,
from castus “pure” (see caste)<\/p>\n\n\n\n