death of the net

Fireside Chats & Mountainside Musings

walks with or without purpose or order
would be included in the running dream
which overarching theme is looseness
or laxity, and we who place high value
on looseness or laxity (in all things, be they

temporal, spiritual, ethereal)
have of late been given little in the way
of alternatives to frontal and sometimes
brutal representations of organs,
organisms, organizations,

driven with maniacal-level
missionary zeal,
in curtailing the ability for
whosoever feels the urge, to live
loosely or laxly, and are in fact

in favor of stamping out all
such appearances, intending to do
so as soon as they are certain their hands
have completely possessed all armories.
Walking may actually get marked as the greater
iniquity, since a person may undertake

a stroll with no fixed destination in mind
– and it is not too far-fetched to presume
that the mind in question may already exist
in an infectious…

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assessing the present situation

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resting for a spell is healthy
and if it is along the way
this alone implies an intent
that keeps one eye gazing ahead
though destination specific
need not be the case, or final.

A theory gives off a scent wave
that allowing troops to believe
the stopover was a new home
is a socket worth checking on.
The meadow yellow dominance
was worn into a bed of mud.

yesterday’s reminder lesson

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arrangement really makes a difference
and liberty knows a flow like a stream
which course objects haven’t weight to impede,
meaning little is easier to say
than this about arrangement importance.

Randomly choosing an unfinished tale,
when along sauntered a sentence that read
well enough: she violated the rule about blouse
buttons. Informative enough, yes. Then came this:
She violated the blouse button rule.

self pep talk

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You have your ballpoint ink
and you have your fountain pen ink.
You have good old graphite sticks
and don’t forget the good old charcoal sticks.
How about them verbs
and the nouns that do things with those verbs.
How about all kinds of lines,
short and sharp, long and shapely lines.

So your snags are synthetic now.
Sure eating is a joy
but think about pixels
just waiting for a stylus
to play with them – stroke them.
Think about shifting gears, mister,
mosey to the depot,
hop on the late train.
Ride, ride, ride, pick a dot,
exit, enter, meander absent of cares.

hard knocks to new teeth, day 6, continued

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the peanut butter cups dealt a surprise
in the form of dark chocolate armor.
Over the years easy penetration
was taken for granted. Oh but the taste
really does appear to resuscitate
a spirit time could not intimidate.
This is how fusion works with lines alive:
dilemma forbids the ostrich option;
begin to see the gift is a toolkit,
and for the chocolate, try a hammer.

from hard knocks to new teeth, day 6

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It seems some points of pain have subsided
unless it is that imagination
has come out to play with white cheddar puffs
and memory insists on influence
getting inspiration off its caboose:
was a fantasy ever so fancy
as to predict a bag of cheese flavored snacks
occupying half of an afternoon?
Another as this will not come again;
revel in every salted stumble.

baah!

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Apparently some souls come to this earth
with a deep love of goats and farming life
in general. Somehow I have become
a part of this mix and I want out now.
The issue is not rural or urban
but about vibes that kill tranquility.
Coffee on a rickety country porch
or a sidewalk umbrella espresso,
either way or in between works for me
as long as there’s no fucking goats to feed.

side note

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Wouldn’t it be funny if those crows this morning
really were discussing where they should grab a bite?
A pair did hang around in the summer; ate corn;
bet they’re part of a clan, and maybe made a deal
with feathered forms elsewhere; or maybe they’ve a route
fashioned for daily need; days, eves, framing airways.

more from the morning crows

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“Further details do not apply to you,
not meaning to imply or outright say
you intruded though you did kinda poke
your nose where it need not go poking,”
the crow cable continued, and as
the addressee poet read he need not reach
deep within to see what was the clearest

truth for the least of the poetic
souls to see, and so he knew the crows
in themselves were not evil as true
evil often lives in temples built by hands
that swear they are to heaven dedicated,
head to toe, heart and soul, but this never
intended to explore existential

concepts or get lost in a forest
riddled with rabbit holes, as a crow cable
offers quite enough playground space,
or ought to offer as much, assuming such
a space does not attempt existence
where buffaloes caught in frenzy roam
– forget about a set for cool swingers –

by now the crow scene – or more like snippet
or a twig plucked from a vignette – has flown
a good half a day away – nature
only knows how many amazing scenes
popped open like eager meadow blossoms
since the autumn sun entered and then ducked
out for the usual global samples.

“You might be surprised, oh so-called human,
how many episodes play in many
a concretely real nest that feature guess
who, so travails, tribulations, and joys,
why heck, some of us know your lines by heart.
By the way the two of us in the air
are lifelong buds; scouting for a diner.”

Taking a sip from his nightly green tea,
the would-be-poetic-type let his head
softly nod, since memory could not find
a file suggesting a time of reading
a more sensible explanation.
And to think it was written by a pair
of local crows flapping a soggy sky.

crows reply

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moments later a cable bristling heat
of a youthful heart landed in
the presumptive poet’s ethereal
postal box, proving that indeed in a way
words and deeds do ricochet or in layman
lingo news gets around – the message
did not contain a statement so explicit
but if a crow or crows wrote it the lesson
could be considered implicit

and this was not an If but fact concrete
– the dirty scrawl extolled the depth
of appreciation and frankly
significant pangs of flattery
that a couple of humble mountain crows
as they were noticed on this routine morn
if a bit of an extra foggy one.
Not merely noted but given some small
spotlight action. “You did okay in a way,”

commended the crow cable, but it had
only just begun, continuing with,
“and thank goodness you knew not our names.
Had you known our names and used them, oh man,
we would have to make life nightmarish for you.”
Just as the reader wondered how a crow
could make a poet’s life nightmarish,
the text went on to say, “we would begin
with making you the butt of all bird jokes.”