our souls are sierpinski dew sublimed from matter's keen edge
honed into reality lubricated by intent
vibrations condensing from infinities of membranes
all-wombing mother,
vast eldritch percussionist,
taps out planck-scale time.

after locking the back door i jump on my bike and ride:
up and down the long, low hill; over the dual draw-bridges;
quickly along the canal to the station's post office...
i hit a brick wall-
a-queue longer than a-bike:
temporal whiplash.

the lie that can be called such is not the dangerous lie.
the evil that can be named is not the killing evil.
unless these are successful in their attempts to distract.
seek out the true source,
not the manifestations;
peel away the veils.

the media is the mouthpiece of those truly in control, telling us the fragments of the truth that suits the keepers' plans.
there is truth in what the media says; a bricolage truth stitched together with dis-information, feints, lies and distraction. 
however, the boy crying wo(fakenews)lf is not concerned with that; he relies on that. he depends on the mouthpieces
to cast their glamar; his cries are part and parcel of that glamar as are the media's reactions. 
feints concealing feints-
distractions from distractions-
lies lies lies lies lies.

i work weekends, so my weekends are the first two days of the standard work-week.
i tend to be grumpy, even on my days off, but one of the things that lightens my mood
is consuming confections...
tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk...
tounging at my tacky teeth;
toffee on tuesdays.

frozen fog is budding on bare branches; these nascent ice flowers
heed the cold call of gravity rather than rising their faces to sol.
i exhale and my breath is lost on the gauzey air; i inhale and am
blessed by the odor of slow, chilled entropy. i find comfort in
this end of the cycle. comfort, belonging, unity.
life's ebb tide;
treacled return.
uncarved wood.

the death of anis amri is merely a regurgitation of the more legendary death of
osama bin laden, which is a regurgitation of various deaths throughout history.
they are each more a hegelian mid-point in this imprisoning dialectic than any
permanent solution to what is, in the long run, a synthetic and propagated problem.
these deaths (not just those of the 'victims', but also those of the 'terrorists')
will continue until humanity's awareness of the system in which they are trapped
reaches a critical mass.
hail authority!
the boogey-man has been put down!
...for the time being.

like the atmosphere on public transit,
the barber's chair holds a certain something;
if they understood, they would charge much more.
cold blade bares warm scalp,
clippers drone in soft mantras;
eyes closed, mind open.

we each are inundated by fey versions of the truth;
panoplies of what is real, ersatz slurry for the mind.
all i'm left with are questions...their answers, at best, suspect.
keep removing masks,
and when all facades are gone,
is there aught to see?

The diamond-like dew drops trailed
from the posy's petticoat down to her slender legs;
overwhelming exaltation strikes the eyes
of the spirit of every witnessing guest.
As the citrus sun soaks in this blend
made by gentle, shifting earth,
the empyrean sky allows
for both plodding and applauding
laborers a chance to taste daylight.
Trusting your core root,
sprout great love in good man's hand.
Pollinate spring land.

I am the robin who protects these woods, ever watching; never sleeping. My daily routine is to stare at the humans who tread along this path. Clumsy beasts that seem to not realize the plants they bump and bugs they stomp. Why must such a being intrude, when it has so much all ready? They can not sing, they can not dance, they can not soar. Trapped on the ground, with no way to leave, perhaps that is why they must have the whole thing.
They pluck our berries
clear cut woods and broken homes
staring as we burn.

Aqueous: of, relating to, or resembling water, made from, with, or by water
The lake sits on the horizon, a blue and waiting figure. Do you miss the glaciers in your dreams? Do you imagine what it is like to be ice again, a solid again. Carving the landscape with your awesome weight? Does a liquid dream solid dreams? Or is it all just so much water, flowing dreams that don't make any sense? You can't miss the ocean because you never belonged to it. You are fresh, and it is salted, cured and ready to be preserved for the ages. You are ready to be polluted and drunk. Inhabited by brown fish that bleed sewage, and have three eyes.
Fresh water dreaming
brine-soaked memories and thoughts
that it never had.

Why is it that after all this time, we do not encounter Babylonians, Assyrians, Moabites, Philistines, Edomites, or the like any longer? The answer lies in the concept of the LINEAGE.

father begat son
flesh and mind, soul and spirit
born to reproduce
These peoples were conquered, then assimilated until they ceased to exist. For all intents, their lineage can be considered to have passed away, although their offspring may still remain. But this is not a piece against assimilation. This is about Christ, and how he has set us apart to be a LINEAGE.

though minds may grow dim
the word of the Lord will stand
flesh fails, Spirit reigns
The chronologies and seemingly endless lists of "X begat Y" have long been a challenge for many seeking to read the Bible. But in these lists lie a testament to God's grace, and how his word has endured. These names, who can truly remember what they looked like or what they did? All we know is that one begat the next, who begat the next, and so

November 1st
some night, orange and distant, has apparently transcended necessity.  the rare morning light beams down in slats from the blinds like an alien invasion;  was i returned just now?  have i awoken the galaxy of sound and weight?  my newly discovered body, oddly ancient, rolls off in search of feet; my mind still distilling dreams, obsessing on photo-flashes of past lives in the vain attempt to explicate the curious thrall that had me believing in words.  i listen for the hum of breathing at 900MHz, then turn towards a door in search of a known world to apprehend, a name to pretend.
horizon light breaks
parches dusk of old plashets
leaving space to lade
+
November 2nd
my usual walk in the park: secluding nature into myself like secret charms in a box, watching the trees foiling off as incompatible matter in some new cold-ache reality, avoiding the human animals as if a plague of angry virus gods would leap off of their busy fa

America alienates me.
From touchdown in Atlanta it is obvious I am, so to speak, no longer in Kansas.
I am asked what I am doing here. Repeatedly, and not always in a nice way. I want to answer with the obvious, that I am queuing endlessly for the privilege of being cross examined by an unfriendly customs officer who wants to know all kind of private details my best friend doesn't even know, but I swallow it back and smile meekly, while trying to act like I am not nervous, frustrated and insulted.
Procedures, waiting lines, probing questions, stamps and signatures, and then, finally, the liberating "Enjoy the United States".
I never felt more alien.
Security checks,
passports, fingerprints, eye scans...
I just want my love.
******************************************************************************************
America amuses me.
This first meeting scratches only at the surface. I encounter all the clichés and smile inwardly: the food portions, the convenience stores, the SUVs.