Reynolds and Midway 44

                                         for Gavin Douglas in Heaven

The durris and the windois all war breddit

With massie gold, quhairof the fynes scheddit.

With birneist euir baith Palace and towris

War theikit weill, maist craftelie that cled it,

For sa the quhitlie blanschit bone ouirspred it,

Midlit with gold anamalit all colouris,

Importurait of birdis and sweit flouris,

Curious knottis, and mony hie deuise,

Quhilks to behald war perfite paradise.

sd Reynolds, quoting from his pate as we

went wambling headlong in our revery

and reverént revéls, as Ian croond it,

not to ape good Father Hopkins, he

of that sprung rhythm, wich was taught to me

in mony a buik whose leaves instilléd glee

when I o'erturnd them w indéx and thumb

whan we were yonge and narrow, quhite and dumb,

but inky as a monk in a scriptorium.

Now what became of William's telling query

minds that grok in yrs not distant very,

wich to invert beyond what we'd expect,

and far beyond the good and necessary,

is but to lovely mimick one whose merry

lines in Yoda-speak made readers wary

and eyeballs tried and true and likewise weary

if not plain angry at such craft suspéct,

wich Dickey thoght, we thoght in retrospect,

but not w/o respect. Now w respect

to Bawby, wich is hér pronunciation,

who came from nigh on Pittsburgh there in Penn's

sylvania , where they tunneld through the mts,

as you can see when driving thro' the nation,

leastways that region [insert rime: think fountains,

think counting, think of Emmet who'd say countins]

close by those famous chocolate factories

whose smells were wafted sweetly on each breeze

that cloyingly wended. Bawby's skin is pale,

his Boddie° slender as a girl's, his wristes

narrow, knuckld bigly, but his fistes

never bunch to strike. He wld not wail

Medieval style on maiden nor on mail,

nor can he think a thoght that pugilistes

think when in a ring w other fighters

throwing hands like mony dicky blighters

taking waspies in the welkin.  Stale

the air of Bawby's close and small apartment,

wich May did open up when she wld visit—

she that she who hails from Pennsylvania,

whom we've written on above [revisit

stanza iv.] and have renamed w love,

whose eyes were ever on the stars above

the jagged peaks of brown and stunted hills

in something of a sort of astromania

(that of the astrological department,

not astronomy), whose cherry lips

did light on his that starry starry knight

when he did ope his mouth and shyly askd her:

May I kiss you , and she said, you may ,

wich isn't why I turnd her into May,

tho' you may think it. Such allowance taskd her

hardly, given God's Will to obey,

and man's; but none wld her deep love eclipse

come hell, highwater, or Apocalypse.

°for you, John, & thx.

- 6.18.14

Emmett Reckins The Road to Reality

When I was yonge some things were different than.

Wich is to say that I'm a different man

than who—or is it whom, or either or?—

I was befor. I herd that heretofore,

that God had up and made us out of stuff.

What stuff that is, I guest He had enough

to make a ball, and loads of other balls

Wich all strung up made His celestial halls

as bright as any diety could wish.

Let there be light, He said, and then some fish,

plus other varmints, sprang upon the earth,

wich was of vastitude and mighty girth

that some called Mother then, and do today,

but by some fancy name thats spelt this way:

Gaia. I learnt that spelling off of Bing,

wich is a kind of dictionary thing

like Yahoo, wich was long befor the age

of Goooooogle [note I splat there on the page,

like on my monitor, to many o's?

Looks kind of like a bowl of cheerios!]

See how I wandered off? My Pa once tolt me,

Emmett, pay attention!  Sure, he'd scolt me,

but I've a neck and shoulder stiff as any,

and I kin take a licking. I've had many

a boxing on the ear, plus a good whack

upon the nether part of this hear back,

as well as many a lashing by the tonge,

wich sometimes more than wallops often stung.

What I am on about is only that

the child is father of the man. Now what

that means is really simple. Just ask Wordsworth,

A poet who could tell you what a word's worth—

I know, I know! I stolt that rhyme, leastways

I think I might of. Might have?  Anyways,

the thing is, when your older, than you see

another version of Reality,

wich Roger Penrose wrote a book upon,

wich I in turn reviewed on Amazon.

I bougt it at St. Vinny's hear in town.

I mean that book of Roger's, who's no clown,

but is a mathematician and a physicist...

Hot dang!    The End.   [No rhymes for physicist.]

6.12.14

Reynolds and Midway 43

                 ...when loth at landfall soft I leave.

                        - John Berryman, Dream Song 12 

Now let us tell of Bawby, most hushhush

and bring the whole tale out. Let William Tell

the truth, and nodding but,

but sideways slantwise lest the prickéd ears

and opend eyes of lil ones lying abed

take fright and swing their bedfellows to bear

adown the necks of them that tuck them in !

We heard that minstrel in the gallery

who sang of sperm in gutters by the Thames,

who whistled on the 7^th day and piped

in woodes and in the valleys, who purchásed

6 bay mares and 6 golden apples, who

astride his horse of air did gallop by

Scotch Corner at one hundred 20 M

PH and paid the Piper w/ a tenner;

who [summoned am to tourney] came w/ hair

of Adam, Abraham, and Allen, who

was Kral Majales, King of May, and crownd

and carried beaming proud like Quasimodo,

whose 1 good eye was teary and whose ears

were stufft with bronze from bells too deftly swung

like birches, which now swings us back to Robert,

not that Robert, Duncan neither, nor

that Celtic Plant who pushd love to his baaaaaabe

(whom Midway hereabouts sang heretofore)

in wanton song and denim, for this Bob

is mine alone, and he is quite a dry-Bob,

neither Sordello's, nor that Zimmerman

who fancied southern Timrod° in Deluth—

Henry,° like him whom John Allyn Smith

fashiond in Dream Songs, like those Henrys

Stephen made, whom Willa Cather sd

was not a poet, though War Is Not Kind

but red and of whom Junior wrote a book,

before he went one day and, Brodie-like,

leapt to the Mississippi far below

to rid himself of 45 sad yrs

of anger and forgiveness— How I wish

his beard would billow and his fall estÓp

or he be caught midfall by Jesus Christ

… Amen at 44°59'N 93°16'W …

and taken to the Father's loving breast

and laid more gently down to rest.

6.10.14

Reynolds and Midway 42

          First part: Misery of man without God. 
          Second part: Happiness of man with God. 
          Or, First part: That nature is corrupt. Proved by nature itself. 
          Second part: That there is a Redeemer. Proved by Scripture. 
                              
                                - Blaise Pascal, Pensées, Section II, 60



Hcav*ns, what a ftrange difeafe is this!—That lov^

Should fo change men, that one can hardly fwear

They are the fame!—No mortal liv'd

Lcls weak, more grave» more temperate than he,

—But who comes yonder ?—Gnatho, as I live ^

The Captain's paraiite! and brings along

The Virgin for a prefent: oh rare wench !

f How beautiful! I (hall come off, I doubt^

But fcurvily with my decrepid Eunuch.

This girl furpaflcs ev'n Thais herfelf —

George Colman's plays of Terence were renderd thus ^

whan Kindld from the archive whither Midway

hied. A lass! He cried, but did not, did he? Not.

But in the inside of his noodle thought:

we ought not build unto th' already skying

Tower of Babel not a single brick

since tongues are crissd and crosst enow as is,

ne ought we trowel and mortar walls anew

ne add more height and reaching unto God

lest some should shimmy up and at the top

be there confounded furthermore and drop ¬

so off we went and Midway said, 2 bills

of greeny money is the all we've got

and is the sum and total of our wad,

and thinking, Reynolds sd we ought to read

O'Brian, sallied gladdend thro' St. Vinny's,

whan Lo! behold to our right shoulder, propt

primly, there it was, hardcoverd, stood

right on its ends up: H.M.S. Surprise !

Now who dove guest at ? Naturally, we went

the few mean steps it took to gang anear

that high white shelf and gently claspt the buik,

than opend it to check the pencilld cost—

you guessd aright, a twain of bucks| Now Midway

ell-o-elld whenas his windows lighted

on that number, and he thankd his Lord

and put his tender index to the Cross

and to the Son that sufferd there and Christ

His arms spread wide in terrible restraint,

His slender body bleeding, hands and feet

transfixt, that we might here with joy endite :
His yoke is easy, and His burden, light.

6.8.14

An important note part 3

28 And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions: 29 And also upon the servants and upon the handmaids in those days will I pour out my spirit.

 - Joel 2:28-29 

2 for Abraham Cowley

I.

There once was a poet named Cowley
 whose metre was just as unruly
     as Donne's was, a famous
     scribbler, like Seamus
 who rimes consonántly, not vuwelly.


II.

 There once was a poet named Cowley—
 Hey, that rhymes with Aleister Crowley!
     Leastways that's what
     I heard, and not
 a fact I can vouch for personally.



5.2014

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes

At Shea Stadium our seats were way too high

to see the players, let alone the ball.

When someone cracked a homer, my boyish eye

flashed, but failed to track its trail at all.

I stood and gave a tipsy clap, the beer

secured between my tattered keds—non-Met

fans raised en masse a flatulent Bronx Cheer.

Down in front, a black and white TV set,

rabbit-eared and tinfoiled, showed the game.

I thought of Mickey Mantle, Joltin' Joe,

and Mrs. Robinson. Though it's a shame,

I can't remember now who won. I go

along with friends today as I went then:

equally loving games, and mice, and men.

- 6.1.14

An important note, part 2

And furthermore I saw that the Second Person, which is our Mother as anent the Substance, that same dearworthy Person is become our Mother as anent the Sense-soul. For we are double by God's making: that is to say, Substantial and Sensual. Our Substance is the higher part, which we have in our Father, God Almighty; and the Second Person of the Trinity is our Mother in Nature, in making of our Substance: in whom we are grounded and rooted. And He is our Mother in Mercy, in taking of our Sense-part. And thus our Mother is to us in diverse manners working: in whom our parts are kept undisparted. For in our Mother Christ we profit and increase, and in Mercy He reformeth us and restoreth, and, by the virtue of His Passion and His Death and Uprising, oneth us to our Substance. Thus worketh our Mother in Mercy to all His children which are to Him yielding and obedient.

 - Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love

Reynolds & Midway XLI

                       torture me, Father, lest not I be thine! 
                                   - John Berryman, Homage to Mistress Bradstreet  [39]

Fare forward; unmind the lost, the hollowmen.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor sleep like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass (I.A.), now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or some such— Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote— to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarine

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilld the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

youth's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully seal-eyed, soldiers

warring in deserts unwalkd by lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins,

drest in my off-white New Age poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd Jarhead & learnd. I woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

thought Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown, D.C.

For Blatty & Friedkin's film I'd run nightly.

At last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

An important note, for any understanding of Reynolds & Midway, and other poems

"Turner argues that in the time-models of contemporary cosmological 

and evolutionary science all times may be connected and time may be infinitely 

branched and causally looped so that both forward-in-time and backward-in-

time factors may be in operation in the same event. Thus, the fundamental 

substance of the universe may be information rather than matter or energy. 

The universe is more like a vast living organism than a vast machine."

 - from a 

review of Frederick Turner's book Natural Religion.

Will edit in the reviewer's name, when I know it.

**Please note I do not necessarily subscribe to this view, but find it a fascinating idea.

Reynolds & Midway 41

Fare forward; unmind the atheist, hollowman.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor doze like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass, now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or somesuch Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote, to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarime

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilled the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

bud's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully blueeyed, soldiers

warring in deserts uncandied w lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins

drest in my off-white hippie poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd a film° & learnd, & woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

? Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown D.C.

Blatty & Friedkin's film had playd nightly.

at last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd° like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

° Jarhead

° spelld this way by Robert Bridges

Reynolds & Midway XL

              Extra-large, for Tirds McGee

But he was not ambitious, not this Robert,

& when it dawnd that he was 35

it simply dawnd. Still the woman slept,

& he slid from the never entirely comfortable

starch-stiff sheets, feet on the neat low carpet,

& took a thought of circulation, twinkld

1^st & 2^nd piggy, which one went

to market, which had roast beef, which had none

was in the gloss of never honord promises,

hopefully few, & unassembled features

of faces floating pell-mell that were once

crisp portraits, words & strings of words that made

rememberd poems some were nearly loaves

& [something] space where two could walk abreast

Midway had one or two of Milton's devils'

oratories memorized, not to recite

at school, but for his own good, for we read it

on our own, & like sweet Junketts we were dunkd

in what wld overcome us w such love

that words cannot give proper testimony|

This much is truth, & do not think to doubt it:

This much is sacred: matter, motion, language:

Words. For without words we are without

ourselves, dumb, incapacitated,

ineffectual, inert, alone (Haig)

in bondage to the bone & sinew,

slaves to our primitive & reptilian natures

that scrap & tussle in the skull machine

w those 2 'R's: Reason & Rationality,

this our endowment, our eternal bondage,

stamp of our race & heritage, our commonality,

things we shunnd so long, nearly a half

century blind to this constant undercurrent,

this strong & binding life force Jung yclept

collective unconcious,  Rand condemnd,

wich condemnation we believed was sound

whan we believed too little, or too much.

& so he rose, & while the woman slept

put on his clothes & scribbld a parting note,

and silent slippd into the murky dawn.

But what of him? Only to say he haunts

and stalks the fringes of a work in progress,

a subtext, best forgotten; a confession

of something better not confessd to. Once,

he was the rounded, Mediterranean olive,

a subtle twist of lime in a straight Martini,

an even subtler curve in the arrow that missd,

that whistled wasted into a thicket,

or twangd innocuous in an apple's bark.

Meanwhile the Lord, Who tarried 40 days

& beat the devil silly whilst His belly

gnawd, hath daily witnessd this corruption,

hath temperately restraind His own right arm,

& guided gently w His tender hand

that all of us should keep the narrow path,

forgive the evils done to us, forget

the evils we wld do unto ourselves,

the poisons in the blood that flood the mind

& alter nature, skewer consciousness

w welcome wands that thrill while they destroy,

that bring sweet magic & the bitter dearth

of aftermaths that ring the panic bells

of slow-encroaching sick sobriety—

the dreadful drizzle-dazzle of reality. 

¶ It's then we need, says Reynolds, the godly cudgel,

the loving stick, as Mr. Christian wanted,

that Billy Bligh had tried on that too coddled

tattooed hide that overlong had lain

docile, unmilitant, effeminate,

supperd with lust & calm satiety,

shaded w palms, hands softend by the breasts

of wilderness, his mental state an Adam

among a thousand Eves. I saw them scatter,

in a dream, my wasted billions, a flash of fish,

an instantaneous diaspora, gone

to blackness, blind, oblivion.

4.26.14

Reynolds & Midway XXXIX.

Many & sundry londes Reynolds & I

wd ode had we the wherewithal to gang

our bottoms shipboard o'er the winedark sea

like Herman & George Gordon & Percy B

wha shld've left that barc alone & lubberd

landward longer. We'd've seed us Italy

leastways, that limblike land of leg & boot

the toe of wich has at poor Sicily—

til God decrees that time is up & rolls

the final wave upon the final shore

(Be it L.A. or elder HelsingØr

where Hamlet brooded & Ophelia dunkd

her lovely locks for love) —thereat to ogle

Michaelangelo's glorious Sistine Chapel

& his amazing & astonishing David;

also to wend in gondolas in Venice

wherein we'd take our try at a 10^th rate Verdi,

or who ? Rossini whose quick & famous fiddles

fits in my mind metropolis: vasty cities

of high & skinny buildings varicolord

red & pinkish yellowy narrow shruggd,

shrugging to fit as in Amsterdam or any

tightly clusterd urban centre where

we meaning Reynolds & me might hie us

for we have seen in dreams the sparkling hives

that in nocturnal splendor spangle night

like galaxies, engendering piety,

like necklaces of opals, pearls, rubies,

garnets, spilling, flung wild & wide,

but in most terrible & holy order,

in deepest cold, hostile, cruel cohesion

& balance, relentless eternal life that feeds

upon life, merciless killing, natural death

over & over, death from life, life from death,

but 1 consciousness—GOD—

& only 0ne, diffused among quintillions,

One to Whom all memories remain,

to Whom all grief remains, all love & loss

Is His is Hers to suffer & endure

for all the never ending evers ever

in deeply cold & brutal voids of space

& ancient moldering yawning gaps of time

time to remember, time to know & feel,

in blackest sorrow & in growing grief

that blossoms there among the love & light

that comes & comes again, the hope & faith,

the prayer & sacred music, humming hymns

of children chanting reverent orisons

& bowing humbly in contrite petition

faces to earth, eyes closed to pray to One

Prime Mover & Maker of all that move,

Fountain of Love w/o wich none wld love,

not even Christ, the Paradigm & Son

Who wanderd 40 days in wildernesse

& bested Midway's 0ne by 39

4.14.14

Reynolds & Midway XXXVIII

I or we did @ 1 time declaim

that 8 the # signald single-digitally

was representative of infinitie

when toppled o'er & lying on its side

& then went on to say that that #

whan represented on a digital clock

containd within itself all other numbers.

But here we cannot shew you how this is

and you will need to bring to centre stage

& in the spotlight—that thin lemon wedge

that clever pepil say is consciousness,

the image of the number eight as rectangle:

right angles top & bottom, right & left.

& in this image, all the numbers live,

This attribute is special to the 8

whan renderd squarely, brightly. This we think

a special correlation, and a sign,

and to it we significance assign,

for number eights made sharply angled aint

what was when number 8 tipt over meant

eternity, leastways when eggheads sd

that that was what that then wld signify.

Now are you with us? Do you understand,

which is to stand under, in the light

within wich ray you have epiphany?

Than all is well and on we may continue

and on & on but wither is the ?

Anon says this, other anon says that.

We tunnel w/ anons thru earth w/ stones

& bones, where ancient wood in fetid loam

crumbles like velvet cake, let us go on

& further downward, down & deeper down

where went Clark Ashton Smith & Robert Blair,

Lovecraft & Poe, E. Howard, Baudelaire,

to pungent dark decay, decrepitude

of pile on pile of generations buried

unsung & scantly monumented spirits

under in ooze of gravid mouldering compost

moss & treebark, root & roots long deep

roots downward threading deltaed branches

networkt nature's conjuring consciousness

in progress yet they say w/o knowledge

yet how can that which hath no vision forge

machinery for sight, that wich is deaf

form the ear-drum ? How in unknowing

process persevere to make the eyeball,

no, to grok the need to see, to understand

affects of light, patterns & shapes ? How, in

nonbeing grasp the needs of things that be

or know what being is.   Let us say a beast

w/o hunger will not hunt nor eat for he moves

w reason but w/o purpose will stagnate

w time & space in stalemate, solid, inert,

unmoved, not by necessity, nor desire

inclined to that or this & yet they say

that this is what it is & all  there is,

to keep up rep & tenure, publish proper

papers undefiant, docile & conformd

confirmd to pridefully perpetuate

the status quo : we don't need no unsettled

apples or unstepforded uncomfortable

individuals, no peas outside the pod

to prod the sleepy sheepy massd unwashd

or be a pestilence to them on high

who look upon us from the welkin down

w blessings & beneficence or with

malevolence, black, raveneyed or falcon-

focusd beastly beakd & talond hunting

down & down & redly bloody bring me O

my bring me my arrows o

3.2014