“I should feel guilty”

Now I know why I used to say that, and what it hid.


April 29, 2015 at 5:16 pm Leave a comment

Sorry, some days

off in RL (Real Life, gamer term).  Doctors and transporting someone who doesn’t drive, a momentary imitation of a conflict with someone–I bowed out.  I don’t play that game of chairs, still.  I didn’t when I was 3 years old and I don’t now.  More people than chairs; go stand in a corner.  Beat the process.


Not talking about RL issues just now, thank you.  It’s a degenerative disease.

November 29, 2016 at 11:00 pm Leave a comment

When Trump Becomes President

Just remember, everyone but the Indians has to leave.  Only the true Americans shall remain!


Or have we all forgotten our history?


Incidentally oregonnerd AT gmail DOT com


November 27, 2016 at 8:30 pm Leave a comment



little woman, at times
you study me as if
to devour me.

…if you ever do
(in any sense)
you’ll have quite a case of heartburn.

For those with dirty minds, no.  That particular thought occurred to me long after the writing and I refuse to amend it.  For those who haven’t the slightest idea what I mean, I congratulate you!

November 27, 2016 at 8:15 pm Leave a comment



one can make no answer
to the past; but then,
nor can the past reply.


All for the night.

This would have been written in September 1975 on Whidbey Island.  I’d just been released from the Navy (by the head of the NSA station in Seattle, the beginning of my true paranoia).  The war was over.



November 26, 2016 at 9:56 pm Leave a comment

On Politics


what is this you try
to give me?  i need no slogans.  i make–and suffer–
my own.


I’m sure I fear the thought of Donald being in power more than Hilary! (or is it two “l’s”?)


I think.  No, I do.  I…never mind.


**Remember I did write this one during the Vietnam war, while participating.

November 26, 2016 at 9:18 pm Leave a comment

the hippy

the hippy

The hippy’s woman
spends an hour, in the morning,
her tired and frizzy hair, vainly attempting
to hide the scars

that clown her face,
distort her smile.

Gentle she seems, meek
(but the careful avoidances
mask a thing
the hippy knows too well):

her words wander,
refracting sometimes strangely: hebephrenia, perhaps:
may be,

she carries scars too
in her brain.

…having outlined and
emphasized, I say,
she goes out to assume the burden

of another day.


The hippy rises early,
most mornings.  Brandied
coffee, joint fuming brain,
he starts the fire…

and what will he do
today.  This home,
this house; a symbol.

He made the money
selling pot.  (say
that softly, now.)

He built it himself:
hoisted each beam, shifted
each plank; this ‘place’

is no place, it is part
of his self, writ large
and quite wordlessly.

He has missed the city at times,
to be sure.  He has few visitors,
here on his scrubby hill.

But he knows this hill
as once he knew lovers;
each curve recalling a secret,

a private experience; he hasn’t
had so many paths
since childhood.

The land knows no lies,
no portents, no meanings:  the deer
do not cry of justice,

struggling against that
long vaguely sensed, and suddenly familiar spectre.

He has known, at times
a mysterious calmness:  “all things,” he says later,

“made equal and thus all
things one, no division
any longer visible

“whether of self or other, whether
of gain or loss, where
there is no word nor separation.”

The knowledge, you see,
is quite quiet; nearly, in fact, silent.  I say, he
becomes more silent.


They greet me as a friend
each time they meet me.
(But each hearing
can breed echoes, with some.

Perhaps somewhere
i lost my sense of time:
i think
i have never been touched.)

Am i my own friend?
At times this same insight
is self-directed, pauses each
word and swallows each act.

I have never been, in a sense
other than a stranger
to anyone, at all.  The price
of poetry is silence:  but of its lack, noise.  I have
learned silence,
by now, fairly well.
But how do you speak
a lack of words?–we say

little, really, the hippy
and i.  Shadows…
this next time, I’ll sharpen
his knife.

has many forms)


Fugitive images and
vain vague images:  once,
I can remember, I hoped
to be free.

I lived on the hippy’s
land, for a while.
It was bad for my art
and not good for me;

we drank those months
away.  Yet still these visions
of some esoteric brotherhood
will not resolve

to vain dreams
and self-deceptions.

–i have described myself
quite often

as a voyager toward
truth.  but, to be honest,

i’m not at all certain
how to stand it, should i find it.


He is dead now.  Truth? see above.


November 26, 2016 at 8:42 pm Leave a comment

parable (2)

parable (2)

in the country of the blind, i’ve been told, the one-
eyed man is king.

but to be sane in the madmen’s cities?–
it is suicide.



This of course has nothing to do with current conditions.


I am also not at all disturbed by current conditions.


–Or right now I’m waiting before saying anything true on the subject, as much as I can restrain myself.  I can say “I told you so”.  I wish, I so wish I hadn’t been right.  This poem was written in 1973 aboard the USS Oklahoma City, CLG-5, ComSeventhFlt.  I’d thrown overboard my notebook (that was in the form used for ships’ logbooks) after having been told by someone in the compartment that I had an unbelievably big audience.

November 26, 2016 at 4:12 pm Leave a comment

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