ReHab Babble Skyrise

Talking over each other, toward-ish not to
but around each other,

                            behind each 
others spinal columns and ghostly
inaction at tiny distances-do nothing near 
                           commons called locales-
Not True?

Anyway,

don’t listen-

when I say,
Enough! I speak for all of us that agree

-could care less about your new shit

or your big problems with your filtering of priorities, 
memory filters, memes, alternative egos and the surplus
Time it took to Kill. Reborn

jabberwocky pixelating phantasm self-orgasming
person robin the hood, savior self from
who you think we think you are. 

None of us want to see what you ate, 
whom you date
yourself by. Don't try to project Person-ality-

when you give backfeed and Forgot how to hear
yourself.
Keep your mouth shut,

didn’t your mother teach you,

manners as a method.

Of saying ‘crazy’ as different,

like the rest, support group relate share the misery-

Take offense? Sure. 
You take defense-the rope is taut.

Did it ever strike you as hurtful -to those with a soul-

dead dolphins, gunfire and blood pools, horrors inhumane

over and over to cause shock but do not strike targets.

Empty shells, mortality falls without impact, on humane

little bitties in cities, breathing on napes.

The awe-some is missing 
that is the bad (fake) news.

Nobody has good news.Celebration is tinged in green.

Locking ears, locking doors, passwords, scans, investments,

Borders, opportunities, admissions, medical plans, retirement,

Money matters and alchemical altruism,

Like science and solution, we are no closer to Here-ing

answers or pleas
we were not looking for while listening to 
the noise, rabble and hum all the while
making no Art of matters

no sense resonates the virtual landscapes,
people posting photos so image lingers, loiters...
muttered some such muse, so much more was 
found unsound and lost between flashes.

Painting by Richard Caton Woodville, Sr. [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
"During a brief career Woodville produced a number of paintings that serve as key documents of urban life in pre-Civil War America. After training in his native Baltimore, Woodville traveled to Düsseldorf to enroll in the town's renowned art academy. He remained in Germany for six years and then briefly visited Paris and London before his early death at the age of thirty. While an expatriate, Woodville painted small, anecdotal genre scenes recalling life in Baltimore. Portrayed here is a typical scene in mid 19th-century Baltimore as described by Charles Dickens: "[of] all eaters of fish, or flesh, or fowl, in these latitudes, the swallowers of oysters are not gregarious . . . and copying the coyness of the thing they eat, do sit apart in curtained boxes, and consort by twos, not by two hundreds." The humor Woodville usually imparted to his subjects is illustrated in this typical Baltimore scene showing local individuals, seated in the booth of an oyster house, engaged in conversation. This work was executed in Düsseldorf for the Baltimore lawyer John H. B. Latrobe (1803-1891)"

X-plane-ing

Never start with

-Because-

it was not good

-nothing-Was

until you found it, nevermind-

motives mean nothing.

I have seen you,

said the old Tribe

in lieu of hollow

Hellos or glum Good byes.

A meeting of the minds may be more than

mirroring-one thing.

(maybe we see the reflective colors

sum up the subject of the object.)

Distractions do divert 

-lightening the wait

of Attraction, less is no more 

than Was. 

Entropy, conceptually, 
reminds us of death.

Heaven forbid our mortal enemy leaves us 
mementos. 

Life lingers on plans, killing time, we forget

Desire by simplifying chaos.

Using zeros and ones

we reduce friction, concentrate on feedback,

Thus, by sharing our singularity as a hole and saying

We relate

origami, fractals, nets,

Symbols are all familiar 

And with so many ways to skin Schrödinger’s cat
how could we-
Not

Because

It is or was

Not a good place to start

with y and ex-plane-ing

flatly, footsteps in another di-

mention.


Photo credit By Agriculture And Stock Department, (1951) Publicity Branch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A lady makes lace

A fistful from elsewhere

Punches back in brass-ware-bare-

knuckles wedged in the apex of this-
body

cage thatched walls, splintering straws

called shelter and In-side to pro-tect this

(hide).

Half dives of full lung, skimming the top ten percent

and heart labors with lead levers, knobbiness is us put out

subwoofer, speaks her dropping a guillotine beat tapped
feet.

Shine, reflective knowing rust by blood

does not make it more occidental
or evident.

Voluminous was in front of us.
Luminous. Seethe and simmering. Conduct thyself.

It meant we were alchemy in the ancient light and cubed to

feeling how close we must be-coming-a but-ajar-
collided with vaporous transitions in space-not
now.

Inevitable and deaf,
truths collide and cling on crystalline charities,
pyramids and Euclid's. 

Insoluble, diluted, inconsolable.

I heave recycled the air, carbon copies fuse for our survival

fitting with such suffocation as we wear with elephantine
authority sans sin-cerity on extended vocation, retied without
social security
which

never Was
you are welcome.



Painting by J. Alden Weir [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nevermore

About Prometheus,

Not all things combust this way.

The will with wings

plies the sky same as our rows are sown, 

the bird does not always

Fall for it,

and never sweats it. 

The Raven, not Michael nor Quoth

Wingnut, whose pine cabin home was hewn

down in front of mine-by a giant crane

now moves from Ficus to Loquat to Mexican Fan

Palm and gets around others-his heritage gone-

Well, I watch him still,

He plants trees in the front yard.

I watched him with his will 

balanced at 2 o’clock rest,

Perched fifty feet up high 

toward the end of a silver branch

when he notices me

watching Him.

He cocks his head, his eyes drop 

to tiny me,

He lifts his left leg dramatically, 

talon spread wide and up,

his eyes fixed toward me,

Sure he was about to pivot

to change 

the view-

Instead

He fell,

He tucked his wings to his sides and plummeted,

He fell.

My heart rattled,

Hart Crane.

And just when I could no longer see him, 

he rose.

Wings wide, he climbed with his will,

promptly doing a flyby down 

the empty driveway.

About intentions, 

Prometheus knows nothing of arson

He can only carry on

hot air to rise-

besides, 

Legends live too long, 

Atlas lifted all but his eyes,

too busy with the world and all

Fire and Friction.

Meanwhile, I am learning 

to lean on the wind,

like the crane floating offshore

feeling 

this is not falling.


Artwork By Kawanabe Kyōsai (Artlino archive) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stacking boxes

We seem to be on the right track.

Some words contains things.

We are confident that the black box

contains all the answers or the y’s-anyway

we need to know

Don't be chicken, unscramble the egg 

before the givens and ganders include

more than two lame ducks and an ugly goose.

Sharp edges, right angles, cubism

is no plaything

for block stacking children.

This black box we found is the thing

to eye-so-late

and define –objectively-we made enclosures

and watched the walls hit home.

The black box must have its corners

where all information clusters 

in tapering space...

The black hole, faucet or vacuum tube

where All

information is contained past and future

flow freely-

both true and not chosen

come together 

only to matter.

Blending by chance, choice, or

opportunity, effect, and someone said

Noise not blur...

Now, this is all there ever was,

Now, with reduced facts, take

atoms, quarks into questionable chunks

of say 100 neurons or 3 seconds-

A moment may be lost-watching-looking

For it. You are it. You cannot feel yourself spin?

I read a note for you

Inside the black box

It says where it is from-

                              there is no gift receipt. 



Painting by Adolph Tidemand [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Post Art-i-fact-o

What happened in here?

They All asked

they made Art

with what they found

with new found Purpose

They said

let us try to Make

something of This

you See more than many

Depth, behind or beyond Being inside

your Time

Frame.

What happened was-All reaction,

I’s further upon reflection,

absorb color theory, insistent as Form,

stole shape of an idea and Acts upon it.

It happens.

not all see it.

that way more for us

to take in and make out. 

Painting by Władysław Malecki (1883) (cyfrowe.mnw.art.pl) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Light flavors

Now,

without the sun

                        overbearing

we can be

just

Honest, say don’t hurt

just

because you can enunciate

                        I can.

            I can-say it-

Now you say it

Strong like Bull-

            Head

Built like brick

            Chicken

-house-

Homeless vagabond renter, 

                         squatter be

categorically dissimilar

part Yokohama

                        by strolls through Ipanema

Say, there goes another

                        Bohemian

Fine

Young

Cannibal 

               could eat you up!

What have you to say 

that won't sting?

From where we began

Now finds us in the strangest

                        Truths.

I too prefer plums

                        To lemons. 

Painting by Hieronymus Galle (c. 1636-1646) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.