This one is free-falling...

Once it starts it's over

this addictive syntax

can't help myself still 

rhyming, achoo, plus tax

And  I go down to ships

and ride again to hounds

just a lot of gibberish 

but I like the way it sounds

Homeric and Om-eric

my epic Omi tragicomedy 

I sink and think as I drink 

such a big lot of memory

how to explain so little 

that exists of past-tense me

it only tangentially lives

in my fractal multiplicity

In all other verses I saw 

with semblance of clarity

this one is taking me to places

I've no framework with which to see

got no Alaska recall to 

guide me on this journey

reaching blind for hand rails

that aren't available to me

This one is free-falling 

no Michigan fine pine rhyme

no clue where it's heading 

will I finally crash land this time?

I can't see the bottom nor 

the edges of trajectory

I'm shooting blind from the hip

to mix drinks metaphorically 

There has always been a vision

an encompassing to my rhyme 

Even if it changed direction 

it always got there sort of on time

What scares the hell out of me

is I'm a ghost forecalling the tune

I'm my own ghost writer   

I hope it will end pretty soon

Or do I? Another fine Mar product

the sexy kazoo key change...

Yanno if I'm honest IDK

where this spirit writing will lead

this poem is writing itself 

it's my job to shut up and heed

I  wonder when I read in the morn

after the wine has worn off 

will  I see what I see now

or will I just headache and scoff

this free-flowing wine verse

is easier to write than the rest

the others are clumsy and exhausting

this one is just flies off my chest

But for all the Walden existence

for all my Thoreau clarity 

in my ever transcendentalism 

I still seek some unity

Thank God for the family

the ones that I call mine

help me brother to bring this

into a state of sublime. 

I am weary with the speaking

talking with out saying a word

sonneting my hurt in poems 

I just finally want to be heard

Bargain basement dynasty

Porcelana Princess 

reclines on rug remnant 

in dime store bauble barge 

so much for eminent 

boatman poles the tune

of byzantine dreams

up dirty old man river 

not so romantic, it seems

Vaping Waffle Crisp

he takes in the scene

in Vivienne Westwood suit 

offers hit to the queen

Times are pretty bad when

slaves dress better than She

Pharoah's budget cuts 

leave her only an old jalopy 

former litter bearers

in loud check sports coats

wheel and deal barges at

"Honest Ahmed's Used Boats"

blank are the kohl eyes

of Nile's favored one

wearing purple Converse

hair dyed Luxor Sun

her Froot-Loop necklace

and newspaper gown 

her cat dons the ermine 

heavy the head within crown

panting in bargain barge

in blazing river heat

under lapis lazuli sky

flaps her sales receipt

where's the damn slave

to fan me on the Nile

she now runs a cab stand

of taxi crocodile 

perhaps, you, garcon

boatman, man the fan

couldn't possible says he

I might ruin my tan

what's a girl to do

well that sucks, ho hum

leans back on rug scrap

cracks her bubble gum 

how boring to be a god

and worse nouveaux riche

this cash strapped deity 

is one hot irritable bitch

I'd fan my own fan

if only I knew the way

they don't teach these things

to the Daughter of the Day

I'm useless it appears

with nothing else to do

and all day long to do it

can I trade places with you?

To our furry friend with love

The fog comes we are told 

in on little kitten toes

it stays for awhile then

we watch as it goes 

we are sad today for one who

went from life on white fog feet

Our hearts hurt and grieve our

kitty boy so precious and sweet

We're also told, wrongly, that cats

take much and give nothing at all 

our cat friend took so little and

gave so much for one so small

that was our Burnt Bagel boy

with coat a tiger shade of gray

so strokable soft and cozy 

in his lovable, cuddly way

He was there when we needed 

and he would never let us down

and sometimes he was naughty 

he was such a funny clown. 

We named him Burnt Bagel

because that's what he loved best

he lived a short but happy life

then too soon was laid to rest

Isn't sad how pets leave before

you realized they were gone

people do too, like Moses says

we remember and then move on. 

But where shall we go when 

we feel part of us also died?

although he was just an animal

our grief is so hard to hide. 

and so many tears we cried

perhaps we'll weep some more

it's okay because death's forever 

missing them, we may weep forever for.

some days we won't that's okay too

someday we're told all tears will dry

we'll meet them in the sweet by and by

but for now we're just going to cry 

Thank you Burnt Bagel for being

mouse police, bagel thief and friend 

furry warrior, property protector

We'll love you to the end. 

Love always, Silas, Moses, Lola,  Lucian, Ezra, Remus, Max, Cash, Mom, Dad, Opi and Omi

(AI couldn't seem to get you the right size Moses, so we made you one of your own.) 

Chilkat nattering

speaking then, of mountains

best to articulate

round Tlingit council fire

immemorial lore relate

up to the Klehini 

where ebullient waters run

to meet up with Chilkat 

for Ku.eex' in the sun

drove through Chilkoot pass

in my summer of '69

in International truck

I thought the world was mine

Matchbox pickup did a

skyscraper condiment hop

on mammoth dinner table 

at the world's tippy top

crane neck, open eyes wide

look up past where earth ends

that's when you'll meet my 

Alaskan mountain friends

breath-catching deities

cloud swaddled tips of pine

titan elders at feast

on stratosphere recline

it's all different here 

we've stepped out of space

land so large it echoes 

with the Tao of the place

Omi Pause

The Tao (pronounced Dow) is an ancient concept meaning "The Way." It is the natural rhythm of the universe—the force that moves the salmon upriver and keeps the mountain peaks steady. To find the Tao is to both natter and listen. To hear but also be heard, perhaps for the first time.  And then to just be still and in that heard-ness, listen. It is the "Way" the mountains speak when we are finally small enough to hear them.

evergreen shrine sublime

whip-crack cold makes jaw ache

snow cone blue firmament 

admires reflection in the lake

Dust who-speck speaks freely

with Lords of the wood

too small to see or hear

yet her say is understood 

ponderous giants ponder

and bow with deep respect

lower their almighties 

to me the little speck

Tlingit reverence for 

all creatures great and small

as Horton heard each Who

from smallest to the tall

My friend Mrs. Moose sits 

in forest fire Holy See

knows reincarnation grows

from just one burnt-out tree

Omi Pause: Holy See and Seeing

Holy See in Rome is the Seat of Peter. Here it's a cathedral of nature presided over by Mrs. Moose, the sacred witness—the one who "sees" the holiness in the fire and the rebirth of the woods.

Baby pink shells collected

named on whimsical whim 

where tins-ical salmon 

with the hooligan swim

as if posed for post cards

naughty black bears play 

lonely abalone beach

Baby Whale in the bay

Last Post and Chorus sung

Eagle calls down the moon

rock cave dwelling bats wake

for it will be dark soon 

in the land of Klukwan

we're on Chilkoot time now

nattering with great spirits

transcending all, somehow

content in our oneness

no alpha nor Omega end

contemplate much muchness

let tranquility descend 

Omi as Dok-du-Yik speaks: I was adopted into the Tlingit nation at 6 and given the Chief's grandma's name "Dok-du-Yik" and I am probably spelling it wrong but forgive a spell by sound first-grade memory. Ku.éex’ in the Tlingit language (pronounced koo-eex) means "to invite." (Thanks AI for helping me get all that down, such help being unavailable in 1969 and the memory of it being 55 years old!) While often called a "potlatch" in English, this is the traditional name for the ceremonies that bind the community together through song, dance, and the distribution of gifts. I have attended two of these, one along the Klehini and the other in the blanket ceremony,   which gave me my name and adopted status. The Ku.eex' was held in Haines at the elder house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Austin Hammond, sometime in late 1969, at a guess. I think their home was on Lutak Street. It was big and white like a bunkhouse and held unutterably precious memories for me. 

Down's just a button on a high-rise elevator

I pour out my outré

in rain-colored refrain

my goth Gaia goddess

rules this house of insane

what's sanity anyhow?

is it something I can drink

if not then shove off you

this gal really needs to sink

down black as printer's ink 

down where grim waters flow

down past my own hell

to Charon on the Ohio

 

and for that, I usually need a drink. 

words are my ferryman

to the bleak place I go

and find no strangers there

only dear friends down below

cuz really who decreed 

that up was so great 

and bad was down under

supposed land of devil's hate? 

I know, we're told that

heaven resides up there

and his Demonic Nibs

holds sway below stair

Down's just a button

on high-rise elevator 

not north nor south on map

just place-name moniker

Down is a valley

Between mountain highs

Where rippling waters flow

Through minds high rise 

I'll meet with the elders

Where Chilkat winds blow

River of remembrance 

Down in the valley so low

like a dream I just had

So William Carlos Way

Plums in the icebox

And this is just to say. 

 

I'll take you with me, Jesus

neon bombazine

cetirizine dream

eau de Nil crimplene

Bailey's and Benzedrine

a night cocktail menu

I might just recommend 

strolling my word cellar

and liked the sound of them

trying hard to keep out

postured sensibility 

just wanna paddle here

in land of Honnalee

Seussically senseless

what larks, Pip, have we!

dragon fruit first mate

to take 'er out to sea

with sails psychedelic

mine eyes kaleidoscope 

in Shambhala halls 

Sister places her all hope

like bets at roulette wheel

who cares what they think

ride candy floss carousel 

sip Pepto-Bismol drink

that's what they serve on 

this train bound for glory

So I said a ship before 

don't you contradict me

it's my fractal party

I'll cry if I want to

or go drowning laughing

it's up to me, not you.

bumps-a-daisy back up

may this ride never end

boat, train or cabriolet

no matter, I've time to spend

and all day long to ride 

this bracelet says it's free

buckle up and hold tight

gonna get loud and bumpy

but damn if this poem

didn't turn to sensible verse

 try as I might to not

it just keeps getting worse. 

back to the ship, comrades

hoist freak flag of crimplene

man pink Spandex billows

shake cocktails Ketamine 

Keeping rhyming weird

that's my mission and goal

if I liked the ganga 

I'd call for another bowl

But I don't so I don't

and don't need no LSD 

my crazy train keeps on

rolling down to Kankakee

in the land of the free

this land is yours and mine

I'll take you with me, Jesus

to the land of the pine

unseen clear as memory

can't stop this fine pine pain

touch of Michigan madness

tilt-a-whirling in my brain

They don't know shit about shiva

here's me spiraling again

down the drain of memory

If only beloved ghosts

would just damn let me be

their molasses quicksand

grips my sanity so tight

pulls under with them to

that day of endless night

I know they don't mean to

they don't haunt me by choice

just hope that my riffing 

helps me to hear their voice 

Greeks I'm told do death

better and louder than we do

openly mourn and grieve 

while I just sit and brew

and drink. 

parroting dead platitudes

that people at funerals say

I want to yell "shine bright!"

at closing of Life's day 

Squeezing tears like pee

I clutch my grief so tight 

I wanna scream "rage, kick

fight against that good night!" 

used up like a Kleenex 

there's no way to explain

shocking tiny moments 

mini mortars to the brain

his little flag lapel pin

small perfect things he did 

in repose composed had me

wailing on his coffin lid

Get a grip they said as 

I sat mind-shiva at our lake 

all-knowing scolding me in

this farce they called a wake

they don't know shit about shiva 

you gotta keen out your pain

rage, burn and yearn for folks 

you will never see again

Selah.