Anti-cedent

It all started here-when-
It was not begun-before
It was said
In the beginning
who said It
when It was
the first
notion before motion
set in-
side-out-
side the difference in
between mover and moved
when It
is found In
and all around
before sound made it
said or heard
It was on the third day
It was idea, a seed sown
the sky glown
in sacred rhyme
the making of
difference In time
then and what
will be
started over
counting It out
to find our place
only to begin
again
at one.

Image by Gustave Doré (1832-1883), Creation of Light[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Perso in la biblioteca Umbertos

Leave a light on
so the bugs don't eat the books.
The grandfather clock
must be wound
so our heart keeps ticking.
Stock up on the stories
so you have many maps
and mythos to go.
The journey keeps us young,
but the last leg catches up...
You've lost me-
many times
in the labyrinth of
your enigmatic fantastic
winding fallacious folios
that make ones head spin-
Are they books or bottles
with memories as mixed
messages?
Translation tends to
misinterpret and blurs,
slurs, like tears on ink
there's a leak, (I think)
Ahh-look up-
always-the sky
knows how to read infinity
as long as your words remain
contained and
eternally with me,
I'll be happily lost in the library.


Image of painting By Unknown Dutch Master (c.1628) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Alter ego

Having an alter ego
is better than being schizophrenic,
clinically.
Although its still not quite right
to say it has to do with our
size shifting ego.
It could have been called
alter(nate) reality
-but that was taken by technology.
Parallel universes could work, theoretically.
This would not conflict or cross hairs,
like egos.
Who knows,
maybe being a writer is just ordinary
crazy. After all,
it's a scary thing
to think like Stephen King.
Though the average person
keeps their twisted thoughts
to themselves,
but knows how
alter(nate)ing egos
allow acceptably
multiple personalities.
And many is more than one-
identities, like secrets are sweet,
indulgent even, but one
can have too many of those
personality wise, everyone knows
those are aptly called lies.

The scenery in between

All the faces
in their cars, stopping, going
to and from
look so tired and miserable-
like they are being drug around,
he noticed.
When people walk,
they participate in the traveling.

Going Places,
she said
Look at him,
now he's going somewhere
and his air was lighter
the wind was with him
as they say.

Have you walked anywhere
without a destination,
and seen what's between
point B and A
(where are those located anyway)?

This thing stumbled upon
called ambling along-

not to ramble on too long
but wandering is no easy thing-

thankfully though,

it requires no licensed training.
Practice, yes,
lots of pedestrian practice,
yet even pacing is prior
enough preparation

for lack of destination.

The art of the amble:

when out walking
in a leisurely way
one can confidently say
I went somewhere today
without a point.




Image By Stupich, Martin, creator, Weeping Wall, Flathead County MT[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spectator Sport

Middle balcony

where reporters are filed

and whores are stashed

doesn't seem so long ago

Middle balcony

up in the branches

the birds mast

where cackles sink

and wails lilt

into the rafters

it used to be so

Middle balcony

cast in the dark

as a side remark

of jesterly hospitality

and for courtly banality

Middle balcony

too far to catch

the rigs and ropes

behind the magic

show down stage

Middle balcony

posts up extras 

for the epic play

with broken legs

and body doubles

Middle blacony

 is a caste idealist 

for the grand finale

leap of revelry 

one must take

into the pit

of the old

Globe.

Image of painting by Thomas Francis Dicksee, Juliet on the balcony (1875) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

De mure De moon

She walks in the open at night
wrapped in white sheets wet from sweat
that darken in every crevasse
by her movement

She speaks in shapes of words
by the phase of the moonglow
and knows she is watched, barely
as she pulls the threads closer

lightly, it was the way she cast
down her eyes
dutifully does not speak
until spoken at

The careless sashay,
the way her hips open
to accommodate the frame
that holds her

Embellished, a facade
shiny with optimism,
buffed and presentable as
Potemkin villages
de mure

But the light from
her being
there shifted and softened
features receptively

In decent she saunters
the skies, timidly taking her place
outside public walls
where no artificial light falls

She sees purely, clearly
she is not needed to light the way
for others to see, but every so often
she brightly becomes
full of herself.



Image by Luis Ricardo Falero [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Count of Poiesis

Should you meet me in the day
-Be Warned-
Under the glaring sunlit lamp
I am grotesque, in the worst light.
I avoid my reflection in hindsight
and it rejects me back.

They still say vampires
once dwelt in caves
nearby, while I dwelt
while growing up.

The solar alarm sounds
strong to vowels, soft with consonance;
sensitive in all tenses, and thirsty.
-Be Wary-
my dreamy stranger-
under the open atria of night,
we are both tied to the ticks
of blood-sucking time.
Transfusing our eternity away,
craving the sap of the skylark.

Composed 10/10/15.

Image by Philip Burne-Jones [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Le Vampire, c. 1897.

The Limits of Infinite Green

Serene, you say

and touch upon

your spinning wheel

earthly orb round aglow

with yellows 

the arrow shows

blues and all its complimenting

hues of pure and azure

blending in

I do not know

as far as colors go,

what on earth you mean

when you say green...

olive

raw

new

wild

moldy

lush

envy

nausea

verdant

toads

vomit

cashola

chlorophyll

dragons
aliens

pesto

eco-friendly

army

grass

gems

under a green light

asking me to go,

rejected and moving on

a blur, recycled back into

the landscape accepting all

applications of green and

its basic redundancies, likeness

bordering on biopic multiplicity.

Composed 11/3/15.
Image by Vincent van Gogh, Green Field (1889), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saying Hello to Yellow

Yellow is such an excitable color,

I wonder why it was not chosen on the dollar?

Go for gold, so we are told, now green means greed (or anthropocentric-ecology).

It gives its gist, its tones surround

awash in amber sunlit streams, a honeyed round.

These bees knees.

Evaporate to dissipate, all yellow with its white,

Ideological color-coded representing light.

Puffy clouds up there dispelling do not care.

A wisp, a wind, invisible in blue,

yellow of miasma, a heavy stench to view.

Blinded by the light, illuminated insight.

Details and dust, minute moments under highlight

backlit aura in glow, a heavenly halo gets bright.

It is the color of embrace, a warm greeted face,

a marvelous matter in Persephone's case...

Flaxen, ashen, wheat grain hair looking for more fun.

The Ylang-ylang used fruitfully in Malay

wouldn't tell or like to smell any other way.

Innocent in assertion, overpowering in desertion.

Wrapping around, at the end of the ray

yellow is what makes a beautiful day

Drafted, swilled, mead drunk filled pores.

The dying man's last words, a fluttering flock, a bird

tweeted the suns secret, in the buzz, it goes unheard.

You will find the secret in your Sol.

There's nothing mellow about yellow.

Faces of happy, or warm air, and for daisies,

slowing down, its pricelessly making maybes.

Composed 3/15/15.
Image of painting by Gustave Caillebotte, (1848-1894), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons."The Yellow Fields at Gennevelliers".

A Charming Third Time

She reached out, compelled
to place her hand on the spinning wheel.
She trembled toward the blur,
despite the risk, she was unable to resist.

She stopped it on an arrow
whose two points of infinity
changed direction in the light,
no two rays the same color.

She drew back and it spun again
wildly as if it had never stopped.
She noticed the colors blending
but never overlapping the white between.

She looked around to see if anyone else
saw, or had seen the giant wheel
before her, spinning on its own accord
humming in its smooth momentum.

Alone and reckless,
she tried to touch it again,
this time to only grab the blue
but landed her hand on an arrow.

She knew the symbols well,
circles, arrows, points of interest, color codes
but could not decipher the definitions-
clearly, each stood for something.

She watched its speed grow
the longer she waited to ask again,
the more dangerous the choices became
even though they always stayed the same.

She closed her eyes and flung her weight
toward the wheel, groping for anything solid
finding herself on an arrow
not knowing how to hold on, she let go.

She watched the wheel whirl,
murmuring about momentum.
She heard one of the 64 arrows
call her name and whisper, The Way.



Image By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons. East of the Sun West of the Moon, 1922.

To Prey

Perched upon the precipice, putting it out...There

Toes of talons testing

Tensile strength

the weight of gravity’s grip

Knuckles fisted white feathers

circle around palms, swooping ling lines

under current, jet streams, screams

of circles

sees squarely, keen

seen belly dancing

BuTter-f-l-I-e-s

Flutter, stutter, mutter

pinned in air

frozen

tock-only

circles in the sand, out-lines

beat

        ArounD

the                  bush

Tracing the clock

You Are Here.

Composed 3/27/15.
Image By Justin Connaher (https://www.dvidshub.net/image/1695289) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pain scale

The bottom bass drum throbs*_*_*_*

catching its reverberating rhythm…echoes in your bones.

Pangs wail unsteady*by back-feed screams**nails scratch black slate.

Rips jagged jerks

                            muscle movements spasm

                                                                       ---and tense-letting briefly a sense

-a single gasp, a breath-       before coming through.

(Inside again),

trembling upon return          inevitable cool rushes    waterfalls through hot veins

hit icy boulders,

white raging waters--direct and dictate

the dermal, thermal, rising

skin, pouring forth

in urgency of some release!

A pressure valve, a double boiler, the kettle calls black______***

incessantly nagging in angry notes.

(I can only whisper in whimpers)

Struck- dumb, now-I refrain somehow

unable to take any more
-pain.

Composed 9/9/15.

Image of painting By Sir Charles Bell [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Patient suffering from tetanus. 

Bottled Up

I took your advice
and put a cork in it.
Silence!
(on repeat)
Compression under strict repression,
taut me tension.
When you said
Keep your lid on,
it went flat anyway.
Impatience spoils the fizz…
Bite your lip-
Don't speak when being listened to!
We thirst as one must lust for
quenching and regurgitation.

I heard you the first time-
Flinch it back and glimpse
-Potential-
Here,
Anything explodes
amidst the churning sea of noise
a message contained
in a clear bottle

is shaken.

Composed 12/26/15.
Image by Juan Gris [Public domain], Jar, Bottle and Glass, c. 1911, via Wikimedia Commons.

Stairwell

Heavy were my legs

              and blistered were my souls

                      as I climbed

                            dropping stones and sweat

as I went.

An ascent, the carrot grew

                           sweetly downward

                                  in your striking light

                                         I rose to the events

put in my path.

Sequentially steeper

                          pushing me down

                                      the air thins

                                          and blood chills

glimpses in steam.

Packed and thrown

                            the key, precious ego sinks

                                         reaping its slaughtered pleasures

                                               deflowered by appetite

famished and sated.

Starvation and salvation

                                  the lighter the load

                                                 only to reach

                                                       destiny's plateau

wilted and near weary.

Well, I didn't know

                         as good as it gets

                                           is nowhere near Yet

Grace has wings

                         on Time she flies

                                            passively Bye.

Image by Caspar David Friedrich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Owl on grave c. 1836.    

Eclipsing circles

The sky cracked

its crusty eye of

blue bags, purple circles

in a sign of deprived time.

The sun yawns,

peaks over the treetops,

energized and light.

The stars resign

their flares drown

to day.

The shining sea

crumples its satin sheet,

white-cap crumbs strewn

atop the surface.

The earth smokes

after a torrid night

promiscuous and still

perspiring.

The human hurries

for his mask.

Mistaken for a dream

the pale moon takes it all in. 

Composed 9/26/15.

Image By Donald Davis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1970's, NASA ID AC75-1920.

About Clouds and Me to Your Ology

As the pressure builds

                         high and low confront,

trapping in between them a compression and

                          depression, folded in thick layers.

A cumulus of collective thoughts

                          gather gem-like crystalline

shards that slice through thin air.

                         In a Doppler of cirrus

the stratus changes, morphing into

                         unstable mutatus Mother clouds,

hovering, heavy and thick with milk,

                          curdling and separating their wheys and way

lost, aloft out of focus like mist and blur

ragged ropes, pull and bind, fraying edges as taut by

                          knuckles under the pull of Virga.

Then-

letting it all go,

unnoticed into oblivion, minute like tears

                          reigning in sheets

down Fallstreak holes

                          through the ceiling

that bears an air of Nacreous ether up there, apart and

                          weighted by the moody swing fronts

of days and nights.

                           The phases fade, leaving

traces of birefringent dreams, seems like

                           floating behind the Fisher King and moon man,

who overcast

his holy net, his wind we felt

mingled with water

we breathe.

1st composed 8/5/15-edited multiple times.
Image By Sensenmann (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Clouds over Yucatan, Mexico.

Phantastic Piano Performance

It was during the intermission
we watched the best performance.
It was out in open the courtyard
during a Metromaniacs matinee,
on a sunny winter Saturday.

The public streamed through
the park with iphones out
snapping selfies and photo-
bombing against the facade of
replicated architecture, others lines,
inspired fed and resaid by other centuries
countries and similies reproduced.

When just then at the break-
a balding, middle-aged, frumpy man
with a black backpack, thick rectangle
glasses, wearing immaculate white tennis shoes
took a seat on the bench at a public piano
painted like our nearest galaxy
covered ephemeral stars.

And he began to play
and play feverishly,
and he plays himself away.
His head hung limp and
gently swayed, his shoulders
carried the notes.
Heavy wafts of ivory notes,
smoke and perfume danced.
And while he played
people paused
For it
was
Intermission-when
over, he knew, winding up
keying down, the piano man
stood quietly as he came,
and wordlessly shuffled himself away
taking his notes
with hymn.



Image of painting by Thomas Dewing, The Spinet c. 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Composed 2/25/16.

Anchors I weigh

When I showed up

I learned from living on top of time

I was not welcome anywhere,

but hospitality persists

itself like religion

everywhere

there’s room.

My timing not convenient.

A detour is never the fastest path,

unless the destinations are the same.

It is safer submerged, underwater

where whims wont push you around

I found

After holding my breath so long.

She could have killed me.

I know she tried, more than once,

placing her baby bundle on the bow

rock-a-bye, like they do,

rolling for the wake to take me back

Her bare hands would be too brutal

and accidents are blameless

What doesn't kill you

lets you live exhausted

torch smothered.

Insisting on myself

I remain

S.O.S.

tethered to the life raft

that was never attached

to Her. 

Composed 10/24/15.

Image by By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Be careful what you ask for

“Was it really all for nothing?”

                                                “A beautiful tribute, nonetheless.”

“All the more reason to question why, or if I should.”

                                                “Always question what you should.”

“Why can’t you give me a straight answer.”

                                                “Perhaps there are none of those.”

“What I mean is, I mean, what I need to find out is...should I continue?”

                                                “Yes, we all need discovery. That is why we journey.”

“That leads me nowhere.”

                                                “Already?”





Image of painting by Nikolai Ge [Public domain, c. 1890 What is Truth? GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sundays with Mommy (Dearest)

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
on my landline, she leaves the same message
if I don't pick-up, she doesn't call my cell
ever.

She calls to chat about her week
on speakerphone while my stepfather listens
occasionally making comments
frequently making faces
I'm sure.

It has been 10 years since they visited
my home, although we live in the same state
we are far enough apart
to blame inconvenience on transportation
and time

She speaks at me about the small town
I grew up in, the weather, the roads and wildlife;
Breaking News from Monday she shares and
sometimes she even sends me links, in the mail box
(newspaper clippings) that smell of cigarettes

She'll rave about the wine I can never drink,
she melts over the meal Mike made for her,
decadent and deathly to me,
insisting I am missing out
by being this way

She'll brag about her co-workers adult children,
everyone else's kids with a 9-5, who are
making a good living, while I am wasting my little life

My mother had only one child
and I was too much, she let her parents
do the parenting. She did this for me-
apparently this was better
for my future, sighting the hind

As my mothers' only child, the lineage is certain-
there is a 100% chance of never being good enough.

When my mother and stepfather became grandparents (twice)
I thought (once) they would become Grand Parents, instead
they adopted their neighbors' son, they go to his birthday
parties and soccer games, but couldn't make it for my sons
high school graduation.

When my grandparents died, I thought she'd be there for me,
but I knew, I was already too far away.
When my grandparents passed away, I knew she'd need me
and I went home right away.

After 520 Sundays, you'd think I'd find something better to do.

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
a disappointment
Someday I should stop making
these appointments
and live a little (life)...
Although I know when I get home
her message will be waiting
past 1 o'clock
Next Sunday
for someone else
whose number she now has.




Image of painting by By Vladimir Makovsky, Mother and daughter c. 1886[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Theory of Speculative Direction

If you were lost in the woods,

                                     a compass would work

better than a philosopher

                                     even if you didn't know

how it all worked

                                     At least you would get

Somewhere.

If you wanted to map

                                     the Universe one

should listen to a shaman's mantra

                                     not plot it out with an astrophysicist

it would be easier to project

                                     realms by means of real numbers

shooting from the lip, a departure from

                                     the same astral plane

                                     bound by reasonable gravity

Altering the scenery doesn't change the view

                                    from the eye of the bespoken

Plato's cave was not a practice of spelunking

                                     to new depths

or sending our souls soaring to the stars

                                     upon plummeting death and worms.

If I remember correctly

                                     the act of recalling can feel like falling, sleeping or slipping

into the abyss of mind matter

                                     a memory palace, a sin chateau,

a cabana for one's mana

                                     and other obtrusive structures

machinations are machines

Like the disgruntled grandson

                                     who built a Reverse Infinity Instrument

(a.k.a. a Time Machine)

whose Free Will Manual Transmission led him to kill

                                     the wise man he so despised

an obviously inane and obtuse conundrum

                                     based on probablies and anti-definitives

that work every

                                     ninety-nine percent of the Time

but that too was just speculative theory

Composed 6/18/15.

Image By A. Ernyes at en.wikipedia (Own work Transferred from en.wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of Kootenay Lake BC.

                     

White noise words

I have sat and watched the ocean

for hours

and years

and while I don't quite know why

I still feel

justified

compelled

in waiting for a reply

for words I already know

will never wash ashore

for me to find

like unbroken sand dollars

glistening gold in the sand

reminds that chasing

never gets

wise by watching-

taking it all in by

each pebble upturned, every

gull and erne, the rhythmic

flap beat and crash, cymbalist

water splashing up word

dancing in wavy mockery

a song whose lyrics

are all pitch and roll

foaming at the lip

while I

still

sit quietly listening

to hear it again

and a-gain

in a grain

in all ways
voluminous, numerous

white words

that tidally summit
and blend back in
singing to sea 

and here, 

the choir. 

Composed 1/23/16.

Image by RicardoUrbinaM assumed (based on copyright claims). [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (edited).

Bell jar

I have never seen a firefly

in Real life,

but I know

I would want to trap it

in a Ball glass jar

shrink its Universe

clutched in the palms of my Hands

convinced I was all there Was.

And I,

watching it like (a)

God

trapped in there,

until it dies

and the mystery is over,

the spark has gone out inside

so I let it Go.

What else could be done?

I lick my finger

circle it around the lip

and mimicking the sound made

of the world spinning around me

while blowing glass.

Composed 5/17/15.

Image By Kobayashi Kiyochika (Japan, 1847-1915) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Times tourniquet

Last week
I had it all
under control.

Last month
I was excited
about the Future.

Last year
I couldn't wait
to be where I am
Today
yet
I cannot say
it right.

Tomorrow will Be
too much
all over again
and then
another
Year
I fear
of ending up
right
Here.

Image of painting by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/1498–1543) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

On second hand

I don't believe in capital -T-
Time,
But I do buy time
all the Time
whenever it's available.
And I do accept
watches and glances
but not second chances.
I never used to wear a watch
in youth
that is counter-clock-
wise
But Now
the time I live in
I could always use a great Coach
cheering me to go on
to keep up the pace
And what about a beautiful face-
There's something utterlessly
Timeless
about a Fossil.
And while digging up
memories
and backflash dreams
it seems
my heart slows
my brain knows
the battery is dying
there is no denying
when it quits,
so will I
synchronized
wise.



Image By Watchexpert (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Isness

Something said, It Is
All that I can do As Is
It Is, what It Is.













Image by Fernand Khnopff [Public domain or CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Ends of the Authors we read...

It will be better
for future generations
Now
that you're gone...
You see,
they will be spared from the tragedy
of losing a(n authorly) dear friend, a confidant, mentor,
a loved one
Zero can replace
from (book) end to (book) end
-From America To Italy-
tears between salty seas
I could not be amore triste
(mi manchi)

Lucky am I
to be born too late
to suffer the agony
of losing more,
Italo, Borges, Aldous, and Hesse, all the poets
gone before, so many I adore-
The words cut off, there is The End
of literary legends and magnificent minds,
such as He
Now freed from his earthly libraries
to live for all our eternity.

Image above painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1898 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Image By Lesekreis, taken 10/14/2012 [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

"I can prove to you that every age has interpreted certain events in the light of this apocalyptic text*: events such as comets, cows with two heads, and so on, were all spoken of as signs of foretelling a dramatic day of reckoning for the human race. Specialists are aware of this and write about it, but the general public refuses to believe it. Let's say you have to console a friend who has been destroyed by his wife. The man says to you: 'I can't go on living.' 'Come, come,' you say, 'all of us have been deserted at least once, if not more often in our lives. It happens to everyone.' This argument has never consoled a sad lover. He thinks of his problem as graver than the ones you describe to him. In the same way, the argument that all men are mortal has never consoled a dying man! 'You're dying, old friend, but be reasonable, it happens to everyone!' If he has any strength, he will slap you in the face. So what can you do to persuade people who believe that the end of the world is nigh, that people from every past generation have seen it coming before they did? Do you say that it's sort of (a) recurrent dream, like the dream that our teeth are falling out or that we suddenly find ourselves naked in the middle of the street? No, they'd reply, This  time, it's more important than all the other times."**

*referring to the Book of Revelation
The preceding quoted text is excerpted from the book "Conversations about the End of Time"**

**Eco, Umberto, Catherine David, Frédéric Lenoir, and Jean-Philippe De. Tonnac.Conversations about the End of Time. New York: Fromm International, 2000. Print. p. 181

Call me Callous

I must be sick.
Nothing sounds good.
Everything tastes suspicious.
Something stinks-
and not in just one place.

And I am switching on and off
like a light, from flaming heat
to icy sleet.
I shiver at my ashen image.
All is muted in grey,
like that one fat cloud
shorting the light behind
that does not desire
to move
me, but instead
hovers in hauntology.

I must have thrown out my smile,
I haven't seen it in a while.

Denial is a thick word
that extends in all tense directions.
And when I look back,
it was there and here.

I cannot speak right.
It is not your misunderstanding
it is my bad, I prose,
I left out the important details.

All my forgotten failures
have been waiting for me
to give up,
to add them up,
to throw up
the shit in the fan
and splatter the walls
with my acidosis.

Etching insults on my skin,
wretching my brain,
I am stained with vile regret-
yet, it may be a nasty infection
of my excommunicated ego,
though -I'm still -I think
I must be sick
of myself.



Image of painting By Artist Edward Prentis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Power-saver mode

I need a volta
the current
situation is shorting
my fulfillment
and stunting my growth

and a volta would do the trick
and a volta sounds like a charge
and a volta would be shocking
to the system

A volta is what I need
to insert into my life, poetry, right
-Here-
left justified
and
Now-
About us...

After all the loves I've met
it is you I regret
letting plug into me
sapping my signal strength
sucking my juice dry

filling up your,
well,
wishes and kisses
are for children who have it all
in potential

conservation comes
in steady waves
don't save yourself,
do something else
shocking
or nothing at all
shutting down...



Image By George Eastman House [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, Electric lightbulb patents. 

Never a need to wonder

Like a nickel found
behind your ear
it happened so fast
nobody noticed how
it got to where
there was
never a need to wonder
anymore
about any thing.
More than a sleight of handy
to always have the answers
in your pocket,
where change used to go-
you know
billfolds and money clips
(now it's all just strips and chips)...
Tho' for what it's worth
I bet
we all still like to stash some cash-
like philosophic questions
often posed as origami
or in amor plait fati, ah yes-
currency well spent
now
we know,
with nary a query
that goes unsolved.
Yet the soul enigma remains-
have we evolved?
And now
I wonder-
what my smartphone would say.



Image of Don Adams by General Artists Corporation-GAC-management. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.