old poet, you
who strive to teach me, i
can tell you miss
your classes! your scraps

of tattered accomplishments, clipped
and collected, suggest
your dreams’ remnants, your
need for some, for any

audience, seeking
for response’s hint, some
answer’s faint echo
or intimation…

and you have known too many
rejections (“no, not
quite that, it does not

suit our needs just now”),
have known too many
listeners, displaying
patience far too clearly.

old poet, with
your quatrained verse
and cliched line, your
failing, trembling voice suggests

your need, your shame half-hidden
(you defend, i think,
too much, at too great
length–to no attack).

and, having displayed
your loneliness like some hidden,
shyly revealed (and ugly)
wound, you slowly fold
your achievements’ scraps
into your venerable, time-marked
briefcase and slowly, awkwardly walk
(impeded by your aching joints)

away, awaiting only
another, similar call…packing away, too,
that loneliness, like some
heavy, nearly unbearable burden.


Written in the summer of the year I turned 15.

April 24, 2018 at 2:25 pm Leave a comment



these reflections, i think, distort.
i keep striving for clear vision
for perceiving now
and instead dealing
with that long gone.

you speak, i hear
in now and yet
i act toward the past.

how odd. as
finally, you turn
and walk away, realizing
i haven’t heard you: not a word of it.
i wonder
at your leaving, and then

interpret it
in terms of the past


Alternative title; ‘on the functions of language

April 24, 2018 at 1:13 pm Leave a comment

The “countdown” begins

The first meaning would be what “Type 7 or VII” is.  The countdown mentioned is to the usual timeframe; over 64 hrs old, that type of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, very close to 0% chance that I’ll live longer, especially due to the combination of weakness and being unable to even partially ‘defend’ myself because ‘it’s not a very serious disease (especially since it’s from so long ago).  The ‘defense’ failed utterly. And it actually is a better idea to take care of someone younger first.


I’m also taking ‘antidepressants’.  For bipolar, right?  No.

For epilepsy (also often also used for the treatment of depression).

April 17, 2018 at 5:33 pm Leave a comment

The Fight or Flight Syndrome

The currently correct form of this saying (“the only response to attack is fight or flight”) is wrong.


The choice is to flee, fight or submit.


Civilization is the art of submission, and language is its vehicle.–


Societies also can’t survive without language.


Corrected 3/28

March 5, 2018 at 10:40 pm Leave a comment



The joy that you gave me
has all become remembrance,

Duck mirrored in the lake:
his hoarse call.

The desert madman…
they called him wise.
He starved to death.

This face recalled: surface’
So bright, so sharp.

And to truth?–silence
or a laugh.

After the word, silence.
After birth, death.
And after singing noise.


All for tonite methinks.


February 28, 2018 at 11:37 pm Leave a comment

Journey to the West

Journey to the West

this sightly, seemly road
set out upon: at times
bewitching, at others merely

a dull trudging, day
to similar day, no new thing done nor mountain known,
one unrefreshed, thirsting

for some unnameable liquid. (let us state, for the
record, that Lamb’s blood and milk left only that

at times, to the side
of our path,
or before, we can see
vague intimations of some goal, or ending-place.

…Shapes that sway
in the fog of a moonless night; peripheral phantoms,
never quite visible, straight on.

At times i think the journey means more than its end.
Without this shifting, dimly-seen path–where would we


I remember writing this quite clearly for a number of reasons.  A Dr. Runner  (of Dordt University) was visiting at the Canadian border–I don’t remember which side–and on the strength of my comprehension of a very funny joke before he’d actually finished telling it, told me I had a scholarship awaiting me, all the way through to doctorate.  This fitted in well with my first acquaintance with Nikos Kazantkis, a growing feeling of a need to do something (it sounded, from the way they described it, like a ‘call’ except that particular thing was supposedly devoted to be devoted to one of the ministering professions whereas mine had to do with some particular task, not yet known and I just didn’t want to try gambling since I was positive I’d suck at trying it; I kept ‘ignoring’ it with more and more difficulty as it grew toward compulsion.) The exact parallel was when I discovered poetry and realized I was a poet, although I still don’t claim I’m good.  That’s for others to consider; I strive to produce art that most of all is an ongoing examination of what “reality” might be and where the source of it could lie but with a first concern of striving toward beauty while concentrating secondly on ‘truth’ or at least a painstaking attempt to convey exactly what is sensed.  [One of the keys to determinism (behavioral psychology, Pavlovian psychology) is; ‘What is the source of the various criteria employed in defining the environment?’  In many respects behavioral psychology is learning theory–especially when it comes to things like rigged tests, rigged so the test-taker will fail because of wilful lack of consistency on the part of the test-giver.

February 28, 2018 at 11:22 pm Leave a comment



another spring day
suddenly filled with driving rain: a gentle knock,
the timid, silly girl i hardly know.

she is full of the day, the driving
moment, complaining
of her uninvited houseguests and their unfortunate
habits (i sigh, yawn, offer

the peaceful pipe, sensing
the impending flood of words meant
to express inchoate thoughts)
and life
in general, past and future.

she wants something, i imagine:
chattering, combing her too-long bangs
up, waiting for a response
i can scarcely imagine.

finally, she leaves, asking
me to examine her car, her
house, perhaps her life.


i walk away, grateful
for silence.
silence, and the spring rain…


February 28, 2018 at 10:00 pm Leave a comment

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