Streams of Unconscious Consciousness

There’s no rhyme present (well, very little), not a lot of reason, just a dose or two of judgment and desperately and deliberately little adherence to the formal laws of grammar with some of the scribblings below running four lines, others two, a few just a solitary jotting. You have been warned.

When the Low Holy Days run 365/366

perdition is seen as providential


Only select humans are anointed essential

in our ravenous reluctance for honesty


Most males, yeah, they shrew up quite well

haughtily debating Newton’s Law as civil/criminal

oozing unearned hubris and privilege alabaster

suffocating the breathing of their Greek choruses


The pre-eminent perjurers throughout the land

masterfully send out others to make their stands

while idea philanthropists being a dime a baker’s dozen

are in need of hefty brain floss or a stout fumigation


It’s certain that nobody knows and even less care

maybe it all boils down to Polly just wanting an ester


Denominations continue to bring in the sheaves sheep

even though there ain’t no meat in loaves and fishes


Can impregnable wombs produce ingrown babies?


So tell me, are you hither or are you yon?


Card-carrying members of the calloused hoi polloi

snarl “sundown town, well, don’t that eclipse all”


They offer up 40 acres and a kick-shitting mule

alongside cardiac arrests performed on all deemed less


“Flowers For Algernon” gets re-titled “Who Moved My Cheese?”

as the fine print in reading comes with it own responsibilities

Writing will be the life and death of you

Writing and I communicate in on-again, off-again partnership

head, heart, lexicon involved in the oddest of threesomes

intent: my truth,  however shrouded in hieroglyphics

eerily similar to the dissonance of betrothals at brothels


Be it orthodox, multi-interpretational or indecipherable

with art or anything else, when is less more and more less?

or enough enough, for fulfillment, mere satiation or slighter?

the muse impossible to satisfy, often barely romanceable


Daveed says everybody has one murder in themselves

I call myself a hunter, a mere stalker of words

search, then sight, followed by aim and fire

is it a flesh wound, a hollow miss or inspiring fulfillment?


Being a lazy poet with a sloth-like indolence

“a minimalist” as I often spout with elan

a subdued pilgrim of the single word poem

be it ever elusive, not even half a haiku


Of no known western habitat

neither of dictionary nor thesaurus

a free agent of precious short scribbling

yet capable of intimacy with seekers