About Attempted Fraud


Do you ever reply to those phishy texts?  Don’t.  That’s the advice of police now.  No jokes, nothing; block them.  Why?  For one thing, they know it’s a real number and you have provided part of a pattern–people are effectively patterns of perception/definition/response=protocols.  Programming is becoming pattern-sensitive.  That was a mistake I made for many years; now I can’t make it anymore.


Were I the astute reader (and this isn’t just my idea or just the police; this is security agencies of various kinds), I would do as I’ve done; quit replying to the unknown.  Which also means, my friends…you don’t post negative things about Trump and friends in particular.  A putsch is openly being prepared.  IP addresses are even available from comments on places like Yahoo…Facebook…and WORDPRESS. 

October 1, 2017 at 12:55 pm Leave a comment



when the fires had died
we found ourselves dancing
in ruins.

destruction was so splendid!–
how odd the rebuilding
is so painful,
so slow.


The original subject was Nero and Rome (the addition of drunken partiers celebrating the event was apocryphal at the time, and occurred supposedly at his villa; that it occurred at all on his orders is modernly disputed; however, remember ‘sugar of lead’ and the following dementia).


That this would be applied by either side to the other of this modern debate that does concern the survival of anything resembling current human society and probably the survival of humanity makes the fires…very probable.  The personalities of the two main actors on this peculiar stage and the fact that they act on characterizations rather than studies leads me to the conclusion that disaster is nearing the inescapable.


“God bless us all, Tiny Tim.”




I have categorized this under utter stupidity (mine) for a reason perhaps obvious to those who have been reading me.  I won’t and can’t go further, unless I leave [have left] information for after my death.  I probably would have done something like that were I in a situation necessitating protective measures; I probably would have quietly reiterated that verbally and actively.  Since I of course couldn’t be in such a situation I wouldn’t and couldn’t have done such a thing.  Final note; I rarely if ever leave a note like this without reason.

September 30, 2017 at 2:27 pm Leave a comment



the world begins
just outside my door.
here: see the mark? i’ve traced it

quite clearly, i think.

do you understand
why so often
i keep my door so firmly closed?


Written days before I entered the Navy in August of 1971.


Odd, it seems particularly applicable now in these days of the media screaming about Trump, pro and con, and constructing a consequently distorted image–with the sole intent of selling more “news”.


My new definition of ‘news’; a current, popularized icon-oriented [icon: “A conventional religious painting in oil on a small wooden panel; venerated in the Eastern Church.”–a stylistic representation of a person that represents a form of belief; quite often they were used in the form of triptychs from what I’ve seen and read] which exists for the sole purpose of acquiring power or value.


Unfortunately that statement will inevitably please the naive members of both sides and quite possibly even the members of various news-oriented media.


Media is the plural of medium; language is a medium; a medium is necessary for any and all forms of communication.  Those who simply refer to the  media generally don’t know that the root word exists and haven’t a clue as to what it might mean.

September 30, 2017 at 1:57 pm Leave a comment



in this early
drought-promising Spring,
seeing echoes
of your face and others, and

other failed dreams, i
know there shall be other
hellos and other foreknown

that, quite certainly,
in some sudden tomorrow, pride
and need and pain
will combine somehow with loneliness
to make another illusion
of love and untimely kisses
not so much begun as

recognized…i know
o dream truly dies, and there’s
the rub of’t. i dream
without belief.

in this too-early, dry
Spring, reviewing
past loves and past mistakes, i have
no great hopes for Summer.


*of’t=of it=abandoned contraction, also a pun on ‘oft’, which would actually require a preceding comma


It was written long ago.  My dreams now are often of the relief of ending, rather than constant and constantly increasing pain, while fighting desperately to keep on walking, and trying not to talk of pain.  I haven’t been succeeding in that lately, but I have managed to increasingly approach nearer to silence in my personal life.

September 29, 2017 at 9:42 pm Leave a comment



I would have burned with you; indeed, I meant to do
so, but I was entranced
by the flowers in the garden behind you. And when I
went to join you, you’d already gone.


This was written pre-Navy.  To be precise, March of 1971.  I was deliberating on many things, including cabbages and kings.  I had become either an agnostic, a zen Buddhist or…a mix of many named beliefs (or a similarity thereto) to which the name zen Buddhist approached most closely.  I’m ‘bad on names’ because names contain far too many implicit and inescapable assumptions, most particularly including schemas based on (“unstated”) value systems–unstated in that their principles are nearly invariably based upon invisible paralogical statements.  Although ‘paralogical’ is a coined word, its antecedents should be fairly…visible.


The essential statement is about the viability of salvation as a gift.  If I ever labeled a concept as intrinsically false, this would be it; however, the statement of a belief or perception is not the thing itself and moreover requires an act to even reach its simulacrum, which brings to two the sources of common and irremediable error.

September 29, 2017 at 2:41 pm Leave a comment

river images (2)

river images (2)

recounting your memory,
riverside. the waters’
liquid voice
knows nothing of sorrow.


September 26, 2017 at 12:19 am Leave a comment

false dawn

false dawn

having known too many voices,
echoing with a dying fall
within an empty room
(though these bric-a-brac
and curios–mementoes
of voyages to foreign lands,
through strangers’ lives–remain,
the room remains unfilled):

having too often conquered shyness
to make a gentle approach–and been,
on the whole, rebuffed: at some
other moment, perhaps, or in
some other place, she (a generalized
“she,” by now: too many faces)
gently intimates, afraid
of pain and pain’s expression…

having looked and dreamed,
moved by a fantasy born
of swaying hips or a graceful smile,
a vision
of some other sort of life, another

having known too many
falsely heralded approaches
to love and truth and beauty,
those dying falls, the gestures
failed, uncompleted, the words
silenced in mid-sentence:

having known the tired, the metalled
streets and the men in shirtsleeves,
lonely, searching for a meaning touch–
or, at least, lust’s requitance…the bars,
that promise in the evening’s neoned light
cessation of this search
for an unnamed, indeed unknown
thing (and you have asked yourself,
too often, why you need another:
after all these failed approaches, after all
these waxwinged sunward flights
and other follies, why)…

having walked among the prostitutes,
and within the churches, the congregations
of the lonely and afflicted–having known
too many journeys begun and ended
in fantasy, hesitation
having swallowed all…

having known all this, that mounted only
to an overwhelming question
for which you had no answers–
having known all this, and more,
you find yourself exiting
to the deserted street, to search–

once again–for an answer
to the question you cannot
or dare not voice, waiting for
false dawn.


This is from ‘voices’.  It’s one of the youngest poems in the collection, dating from mid- to late-80s.  When I get out, which means I’m suspecting I will after a fairly routine little stint, I’ll soon sporadically start offering to actually get all of ‘voices’ typed up (there is quite a bit more, after all) and sent off either as a download (nominal sum), or printed (at which point I’d have to formalize the whole thing).  As far as current poetry goes, if anyone wants to hassle me enough even with the years that I destroyed there’s a lot of ‘first-run’ poetry.  As I’ve said, I found that I at one point began writing for others’ approval and found I began despising myself with the realization.  (I was raised as a Calvinist, Christian Reformed; what can I say??)  Mind you, as the parenthetical comment there implies, I was merely practicing a skill already well-developed as a child, with the aid of my adopted parents.  I found the same thing with poetry that I didn’t submit for publication; I needed a ‘cooling off’ time before I had the perspective to judge.  To reword that, to my eyes, a lot of my poetry sucks unless aged properly so that I can judge what’s moldy from birth and what’s not (even if some mold has to be scraped off).  [I’m being literal, although moldy cheese isn’t sold to the public.]

September 26, 2017 at 12:01 am Leave a comment

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