The Great Gauze Above
wraps Earth below
in white cumulus cloud
burnished sun bright sky blue
over gleam glass ocean
green grand land
morning star to shine on through
egging me to do
something higher righter better tighter
for the light, not the liar
Which comes first, the seed or the bloom?
In lotus blossom, both—
simultaneous cause and effect.
From dirty water undefiled flower.
A CROOKED MAN
There was a crooked man
not politician or banker
nor CEO or priest or moral shanker
(though all fine crooks in each their way)
but a simple guy with crooked sight
who thought fair meant fair
and right meant right
no matter how rich or big or tall
the same truths applied to all
if A were rule for man with penny
A must abide for man with many
if B is wrong for one with naught
it's just as wrong for one with lots
as poor pay tax and serve and fight
so should rich add their might
and give to keep this going going
this very world they seem to be whoring
using lawyers politicians guns and money
not to mention TV and honey
to dull our minds to take our score
demanding we must pay far more
so wealth in growth can glow galore
they say less more than we deserve
think we'd be happy we're not tempted
by all they buy with money exempted
and they're probably right
in Zen light
for stuff is trouble
stuff takes space
stuff grows like fungus in dark dank place
stuff needs storage stuff needs safe
stuff sucks storer stuff takes place
stuff becomes bad bit breath
stuff stiffs stuff
so bet on tortoise
forget the hare
stuff is rigor mortis
stufflessness free air
winning is failing
oh the meek shall inherit
one heck of a mess
Though I've yet to reach the station
I don't know my ticket goes that far
or the ride is worth the trip.
But at least I lost my bags.
Playing Commander Cody's sad sad song
Down to Seeds & Stems Again Blues
as I drool, wishing for even that
instead of these Cleveland pot holes
and cheap pot metal potpourri
I'm trying to smoke to settle
my existential angst of dues
drifting in these no smoke blues
a prohibition punch line
in search of joke
of Mary Jane
sweet assassin of youth
boo boom bammy Buddha bud bhang
tea herb ganja gage cheeba chillums
dawamesk dew diambista dimba
kumba chronic moving up to atomic
matchbox machinery magic Maui
Mother Mary come to me
mighty mighty mezz
black bart start
fire up funk funny stuff skunk
limbo loco lumber number
spliff splim snop
jay jive joint joy sold
Panama Red Acapulco Gold
primo pod poke pot
rainy day woman rasta reefer
yerba yeh yellow submarine
Thai stick thick with dreamy resin
puff the magic dragon
Chicago black Chicago green
viper wacky zombie weed
man I need to tighten my wig.
STATUS REPORT 85
The night is Jung
the day is Freud
reality’s a balloon
by clowns deployed
the stops done go
the goes get gone
the highs hang glow
and the lows lay long
in this never wrong ever
18 NOTES ON 44 HOURS CAMPING
Camp kids playing.
So quiet it's noisy,
specially cross water,
each human hoot and holler
heard from lake and boat and shore.
The sweat heat whistle of moisture
being forced from wood
The rain runs through the dawn
tree by tree by treetop,
we sit dry beneath.
High heat, low flame,
licking what's already gone,
Fire's like water—
slow, fast, liquid, easy, hard, wily, soothing,
fear always near.
Watching fire weave and wisp,
freeing wood to would.
The sparkle through the green
of water lapping sun,
lake licking shore,
breeze in trees,
rush of wet around.
My phone doesn't know what time it is.
Where are we?
Laughter shriek over buzz and burble boats,
hiss of water escaping wood by fire light,
off-key fan bop from boat hawking country pop.
Sleek slide of wave over water
crystals surfing slice of sunlit sparkle water,
smoke gone with moon.
The fly works for its share of the pie
just like you and I.
Watching fire for 42 hours
I see that which does not heed its husk, burns,
and hard edges, splinters, bark,
anything stands out,
calls for spark,
lights the dark.
The clever keep their mouth shut.
This is the great Wisdom of the Wood,
Stick with the grain, or poof—you're ash.
Got a couple ants on me.
I burned their stick.
Wonder how that looks to them?
Lake lap dance of sound and light on shore,
ritual of burning wild wood and weed.
Our air mattress leaks,
we sink deeper in sleep.
Stop at the Karma Cafe on the way back
but it's too late to eat.
I see Santa the red-nosed thing dear
dancing on the head of a pin
in some strip club down Lonely Lane
where never was already is
Unreined deer out in the alley
shooting crap with quantum dice
taking tokes of alfalfa doobies
awaiting a working dear's price
HEY—warning light flashing over head ! ! !
such goings bring Ghost Past Behind
this is your don't-want-to-be dread
beckoning being sorry, unkind
Grouch don't get no good foot forward
greed can't grasp no love at hand
mean won't lean no one toward
higher helping plan for grand
Less is more, more just more mess
relax, lay back, let go, seek slack
to give is true get of success
sharing shines in giving back
So let's sing a song of simple
then go feed a folk or few
gotta make our own example
be such be as want to do
Sacred Santa Holy Tinman
watch how I lay me down to seek
higher focus in the real land
once we waken from our sleep
(For aurals, go to the anti-holiday song, 5:28, 2013, Peter Ball (1949-2015) music, Smith word&voice: www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/19374180-ex-christmas)
I follow the streetlights into the night
light... dark... light... dark...
like my life
—Medusa, with thanks to Smith for today’s fine poems and pix, bringing us holiday wishes all the way from the Land of Cleve! Keep Steven in your thoughts, as he goes in for extensive spinal surgery in mid-January.
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