If the words we choose are merely tools
that separate the wise men from the fools,
what sort of workshop is the kind of school
where any passion in our hearts is cooled
and what we learn is just a set of rules
and reasons why our lives are base and cruel,
an endless search to find some precious jewel
that uses our own hearts and minds for fuel?
18 Jun 2025
The world is too much with us to pretend
that it is just a temporary slot,
a way to pass some time from start to end
or make believe it’s separate. It’s not
that it is just a temporary slot,
a proving ground for weighing thought and deed.
It is the whole of everything we’ve got.
There is no other lifetime guaranteed.
A proving ground for weighing thought and deed?
Perhaps that is much simpler than it sounds.
Velocity implies both place and speed;
it’s relative to both the sky and ground.
Perhaps that is much simpler than it sounds:
a way to pass some time from start to end
does not imply more than one go-around.
The world is too much with us to pretend.
18 Jun 2025
Against the current swims the steadfast one
who thinks to beat the ocean at its game.
What starts as just a wager made in fun
becomes, after an hour, much the same
as boasting that you could stare down the sun.
You cannot win. Admit it. There’s no shame
in realizing you are very small,
and not much worry to the world at all.
Against the pull of time, our lives spin out
and at the end, our threadless, empty spools
have sewn us neither certainty nor doubt,
but just the simple winding sheet of fools,
that wraps up both the whisper and the shout
and never bothers teaching us the rules.
That threadbare piece of cloth becomes our shroud.
It’s all the carry-on we are allowed.
17 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentLet fly the cannonballs and fiery stuff,
release the fire arrows in the night!
They don’t already know it, but enough
is more than quite enough. It’s time to fight.
What good is mere diplomacy and talk,
when no one listens or misunderstands?
There is no point in waiting any more.
Our greatest weapons will leave them in shock.
When it comes right down to it, no one can
resist the subtle serpent’s song of war.
What good is it, resisting such a force?
It gathers in momentum by the day,
and casts aside all reason. Why? Of course,
because some people love to hear drums play,
and safely, from the hilltops, watch the scene
where lesser men and boys succumb and die,
and count it victory when money’s made.
What does it matter, winning? What’s it mean?
Who knows what is the truth, and what’s a lie,
when the glory and the trumpets fade?
Let loose the hounds of hell, and let them run,
among the poor and hungry fools who fight.
The battle ends before the war’s begun,
a pre-decided case of right and might.
Imagine this scenario’s a test,
a way for culling ignorance from bliss,
to see who gets it, or nothing instead.
What good is knowing who knows what is best,
or wanting to believe the world wants this?
There are no heroes there among the dead.
17 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentThere once was a curious soul
who searched high and low for the whole;
each time she would start,
she found just a part,
and imagined it gave her control.
There once was a mystical clod
who claimed he had spoken with God;
some found him absurd,
but took him at his word,
despite all his attempts to stay odd.
17 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentI’m writing a book. Now if that’s not the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, I’ll eat my hat. Not because I’ve run out of words, but because the book I have in mind doesn’t solve anything, teach anything, or have much nutritional value at all. It’s a recording that when played back includes the frequencies that will destroy the playback device. It’s a song that hits the notes that will crumble the human vocal cords as they vibrate them. Not that it really matters. I can’t sing it anyway, and even if I could I’m not sure you could hear it.
The point of writing a book is to communicate something, right? To share an experience, whether that be instructive, cautionary, hypothetical, or just diversionary. To pass on something you’ve seen, heard, felt, or maybe even learned.
But the people who write books use a certain “voice” to tell the story they think needs telling. A narrator, whether reliable or not, live on the scene or relying on a delayed broadcast of from anywhere to a few seconds to thousands of light years away. They may break the third wall, or not. A story either shares its secrets with you as soon as possible, or makes you work for it like a last case before retirement detective in a bad suit and sensible shoes.
A lot of that depends on what the writer wants to say. No matter what, the author wants you to take them seriously. The subject matter may be light and airy, soft as eider down, or smooth as Tennessee whiskey, but the act of reading is serious stuff. So much depends on the wheelbarrow you use to haul the flotsam and jetsam away, doesn’t it? Without a willing reader, someone to engage on all cylinders with the premise and the people in your book, the great American novel, whether it’s about gangsters, spacemen, big or petty business, true love or false hope, the real nitty gritty or a real soft soap, doesn’t make any more impact than a gnat flitting across the Mississippi River, if nobody really reads it.
Of course each reader picks up a book for a different reason. Some are always questing, whether in their actual lives or only in their imaginations, for some single grain of sand that will explain to them the entire beach. Others are simply bored and want entertainment, titillation, or electric shock therapy. Another might be looking to learn something that will make them interesting at cocktail parties. Never mind that being interesting or cool by imitating interesting or cool people is like learning to play guitar by listening to Eric Clapton and wondering why you don’t really sound like him. No one who thinks about, obsesses over, or worries that they are cool or interesting will ever be either. But that doesn’t stop millions of lemmings from finding just the right cliff edge for demonstrating their individuality.
So, a book. A story, a narrator, a tone, a message or underlying moral. A sales pitch. If you read this book, you’re going to get something.
Problem is I’ve got nothing to tell you. Because no matter what I say, there is no story. This is happening in real time. And as we’ve already learned, to relay the story, to sing the song itself, is to reproduce the frequencies that will destroy the teller.
There is no story. No guru, no method, no teacher. What I’ve got to say in a book can’t be said in a book. That doesn’t mean it’s important or even needs to be said. It’s not like the Tao that can’t be spoken and therefore ip so facto could never even drive through the neighborhood where the Tao rents a weekly room. What is it John Cage once said? “I have nothing to say, and I am saying it. That is poetry.”
So here goes nothing.
15 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentYou want to see the world a different way?
They say you only need a different light.
You choose to flip the switch, or change the bulb,
or light a candle. You get to decide.
You may choose colored filters to compare
the view that might be, from the one you know.
Another person might increase the watts;
or point the lantern differently from you.
There may be something hidden in the dark
that great illumination brings to sight;
by contrast, what is washed out by the sun
may in the darkness share some secret code.
Of course, despite what source of light you choose,
the critical component is your eyes.
No matter how much shadow you dispel,
you see just what you want to see is there.
You want to see the world a different way?
Perhaps all that you need to do is look.
It’s all inside your head, in any case.
The recipe dictates what dish you cook.
13 Jun 2025
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