Table of Contents

Nature's Value

Man must acquiesce,

No matter the room;

The room..

Is of little consequence,

For the value of a room

Is dependent on a view,

No matter the room,

How exquisitely crafted.

If it has no view,

Value is questionable.

From the room man made,

Value sees fit 

That view be provided 

Of that untouched 

By the hands of man.

A man made room

Must have a view of that

Which is not man made

To allow it to make claim:

A room of high value.


New Phase of Celebrity


Under space of a year, 

He gave his parting benedicition,

And with a firm grip 

On the elephant's ear

Took leave

In his circus finery

And well-worn shoes


With spade in hand, 

The soil of home's grave.

A raspberry culled 

From lips of a ghost

Sustained him, 

And gained him

Amateur magic 

And a choice selection

From envy's repertoire,

Befitting the Empress's hand 


In demure social discovery.

This was where the lightning hit...

This moment that marked

A new phase of celebrity.

Nine O'Clock Sailing

An unpromising security;

The best he could sift 

From ambiguity's history,

Even in superstition's absence, 

The six months,

Multiplied by three,

Vexed his Hume-like skeptic tic. 

Adjustments were okayed,

Permitting quick,


Sweeps that all happened

In a time 

Befitting the conscientious time keeper's industrial eye.

A giant step 

And a set of staccato hops 

Were made to mind's library, 

Where shelves of immaterial fables,

In their infinite bindings,

Made their presence

A meaningful event 

To all visitors

Holding the necessary papers

For entry. 


Acted as dead weight 

To the armless silhouettes;

Gracing the royal decor;


But aware.

Palming the tiny key, 

And squeezing through

The curtain's aperture;

A fool's knot 

Held the vehicle of God

Idling for a passenger's participation.

With one nod 

To the flying tambourine, 

The intact seals

Remained as they were,


And genuinely plain. 

Only a violent transport,


For the present generation,

Would move us all

For the next sailor's call.


No Net To Catch Me


Reason's Hordes lay in wait 

Under dull-lit doorways

Gripping the cerement 

To wrap me and trap me

And throw me to a watery grave 

Where only the ghosts 

Of fishes can benefit.

Minds of these men only rest

When I am owned 

By a domed dagoba,

The boaster of my bones.

Humor sees fit to allow

The Light of Being whose nature

Is that of the free-blown

Where nets and snares abide

In their sad isolation.

When the causeless builds

A fortress, the dimensions 

Be Homeric and there be no

Paper so rough to scratch
The surface of Impenetration,
The surface
Of the Mind's Sublimity.

I have no grudge toward 

My foes of infecundity, 

The purveyors of monkeyshines

And border-grafters of the

Reality Cube.

I'll pluck my song as an ostinato 

To bring them along into 

My Holy Dream.