It's a beautiful day

So what do I need to post anythign for?

Jack's Rucksack.

"Enlightenment? I thought it was 'Dedarkenment'"

"That's because you're has back half wards."

"Are you making fun of me."

"There is a certain fun in you of which brings me much joy, but this is not to 'make fun'"

April 19, 2013

"got anything? I got nothing."

a green chain border, birgiht lime green. Big bold numbers in a darker colored ink.
 There is a head, a giant head, it
     has a gaze, it's
   always oriented in the same direction
      stamp to stamp,
    letter to letter, he
 nnver ever blinks or
  whistles a patriotic song
       except
 after
      Albert Hoffman spilled some liquid
    on his hand and then
   every stamp was different
 nothing is ever permanent
    even ink
     on paper
  the letter
   from Anafagasto
      the smell of
      salt
   Peter was cruzified upside down.
  People will do anything for money.
  The story is too complex, old
      toxins spilled and then burried
   are often best to be left to settle.

  If they dig it up, declare it
      all a toxic zone in
  need of review that
    letter to the senator
  a letter to the pres-i-tucked-up
    it was laced
           with
     ribbins and bows
 send it allong with a 
     surf-tune bounce
  hidey hello
    we love you
  we love you
      don't you know.

  So it was just a confection
      from fond affection
     of paper and bow
     totally harmless
   and just for show.
    Those mail room managers
      said that they always know.
   They've seen it all before.
 They have often had to show
          the unrully a-hoe to
          the door.
     They have not held back the boot
           to hinde correction
 even if the old badgers might yell
     "it's insurrection!"
         But all they really want 
      is brewed confection
   so the postal guy will send them
           in that direction
    and if you got your rants and raves
       you must display
   please do it somewhere else
       not here today.
    Please take it down the block
       off near the cove
      or somewhere far away
    where drunkards rove
         and that's not to say that we won't be drunk
   if we are off on our saturday shore and sea side haunt
     or when we dance a storm to toast a bride and groom
   we just don't bring it here to work, this public room.

  So the drunk is ejected from the 
          Post Office
  off to the lake 
    to lay beneath a blueberry bush
       till he awake.
     and then maybe Paxton's walking through with a gardan rake?
     He wants to plant sow some wild flowers
       he pretends to no secret or magical powers
  except soil and seed
     and a will to read
    so as to learn
       ecology.

 Both ecology of soil and of soul are
     gleened from reading Henry.

 Do you wake the sleeping drunk?
    do you wake him from his stuper at the public rake
   do you poke at him with a gardan rake?
  who is this man
     beside the pond?
 how did he get here
    and get so 'gone', (far out there, man).

  He dropped his wallet, 
       removed his tie.
    We didn't expect
 he was that kind of guy
    he had a wink
  in his basket ball eye
     my friend said it wasn't that he was
        insane
      but by direct effect
  of window-pane.

  Window-pain? Is that the same?
    or is my rhyming here
 just sad and lame?
    Window-wrattle?
     Winter chills?
   that single paned glass
 and the Snow burried hills?
 
  Springs in melt, 
     of long ago
  the summer is over
      don't you know
  and autumn past
     without a thought
  why do voters
     believe what is not?
  And elections cycle
     from fair to fowl
    and we all endure
 the burghars that scowl
     and we look to them
    to make it right
 but then they act
     like we want a fight.
  We just want to have someone,
       when the party is over
     turn out the light.

   Paxton walks past
     the public sculpture and
  imagines the poetry that
    he would etch into people's souls
     where they could really see it,
   hear it, use it, no
        websearch glasses, 
 edict-a-phone (Trademark),
       laser that inject themselves
 into your thoughts
   making you believe the lies
    that are vicious thought knots,
    the ramble tangles of the 
         un-intellegencia.
    If you dare to question who it is that sentiahh
          they will say it's to private
      but then they want a camera
     up everyone's 
            but
       they aren't really going
  to let them do that are they?

  Just then the smart-phone twiddles
     which isn't very smart because
   it gives away to our sleeping drunk
  that someone is nearby and
     that  guy awakes from
       below the berry bush
  where he'd been sleeping it off (it being 'the world')
                and then he feels  suddenly threatened
  like he is in a waking dream
      and thinks he is back somewhere in a fire fight
    or when the rockets won't stop their glare
 on and on and late into the night
     and the way that they treat their women
  just isn't right.

  They encounter each other with sudden burst of rage
       how will this story end? how can we turn the page (
         since I'm not printing this)
 if this is ever printed into a book the page ought
     to end here and then a new page for a cheep
    dime-store poet's throw-away feed-me-I'm-pour
       rage that a person sells when he/she is down on 




their luck so what am I putting it down for.
 How many times did you buy such a foundling
     manuscript at a deadshow, behind a
    concert someone
        giving out their poems for
   the price of some
      stirfry.
 "I've got a box of rocks.
    you want to buy a 
        3 dollar piece of purple quartz
   for thirty dollars. I really
         really need the money."

   But Paxton was the kind who would
      buy the thirty dollar rock
   because he was flush and knew to share.
    and then he'd go to a bridge in the city some where
        and fling it in and say a prayer.
     He did stuff like that.

  Once someone sold him a very precious piece of beryl for
     next to nothing and Paxton was going to throw it
      into the Merrimack but the ghost of Jack flew
          uup to him a love dove (a mourning dove)
    and coo-coo-couuued at him and told him he 
      loved him forever and that this really was
   a very fine piece of mineral and that it was
       such a waste to just toss it away 
      when it could be made into a fine emerald
          buddha mount.

  So paxton broght the hunk of green stone back to his mantle
      and used it as a stand for his low-grade jade
            buddha that he paid too much for a garage sale.

  Paxton used to pay too much for things.
    He was flush like that and didn't mind
        spreading his wealth around.

 So what did he do when confronted by the drunk
     who, now having rested was puffed with sudden spunk
    and here is what he said, he'd make a bet
  that if any do him harm they'll come to regret
        all that they might do to think they are getting over
  He'll beat their sorry ass
       all the way through Natick
    and back to Dover.
           "So just why did you awaken me from slumber
         in the emerald clover?"

 
 red blue darker red darker blue

lime green, thick on a light violet, almost sky at dusk as the sun rises
    far away morning sky
   and an aairplane
     chunking through
    suddenly
    cutting the day
   in half
    rousting the
  morning doves
  from their blissful
       connuddles
 and all a flurry now
       picked up in a flock
     swarm
  ascend
 towards the back door a 
    church
   full of the day
    for the bride
       the groom
 and all who will say
        God Bless!

 All of those birds
     flew into that big cathedral hall
     and circled, as a flock
      amoungst the staues of the saints
   and the votive candles
          glowing, the
  stained glass,
       a bride in perfect white
  her perfect day, next
          a perfect night
     so . . . selah
  what could go wrong?
      the type of thing that might get
          immortalized in song
    a flock of doves  in the sacred chappel?
   they swarm as a flock to the sacred alter, 
       swerve away before the holy faulter
    some one there is thinking in a tizzy
      what to do what to do
    to free  us from the calamity
      that might come.

  Ah, but then it was the door opening, the flock
     sees the light
  and flies off into it.
   No actual bird poop
    ever touched the white silk gowns.

enough, the sun is bright and I am
   wasting my day doing this?