The Power of Lo—Sex


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That’s the word certain nerds
use to calm down, back up, and
think, they do it with tone, sometimes

represented in writing with italics.

Thank God for spit, it keeps coming,
the male sex instinct is X, the women’s
is Y, why we’re off sometimes because
X is cross and Y is open and vice versa,

then one day the bomb explodes!

You cannot control Sex.

I imagine the eunuch tries, but
sperms game to swim swim a wild

God, or Life, or Nature—or whatever
power you observe as King—made the
thing go and go and go without relenting!

Sex is like the universe itself, kind of
unknown, stark one moment, pounding
the next, black holes explored the
crevasse of stink, the stank thing you
thought by holding back, comes back like
an avalanche a day later, or in the

middle of the night, holding tight, you

cannot stop the flood, the bursting
of the dyke.


Few!  Few are those who can manage
the power, the pulse, the growth,
the manufacturing of eggs and life
forever spinning like the planets
around far off suns, mirroring ours
in a game of loss and won.

Truth is as truth does, and so at
break of day—play!

Then we head with conviction, we
hope to a setting arc, words and
images, sounds and sweat abound

until it stops.

If we were true to our five senses
we get a sixth, peace of mind
finding us at the end of long, well-
lived, singing rhyme.

Doesn’t mean we can make our
bodies stop, they keep going and
going, the energizer god of sex
not a bunny per se, but then again

they boink a lot, or so they always


Will it Know?


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Will the stars know I was here?

I think my first memory made one
blink in a far off sky, alone we never
are—not even in the moment some
cloud with dye.

I trounced and danced naked at
my third birthday around a sun
wondering at the earth’s movement,

Mother and child, father and toxic
liquid, a fire-dance!

God is in the heavens, is in your
dictionary (puff the dust),

There it is, Atheist. The un-
avoidable fact: God is Concept, and
therefore exists.

Boom, the city went boom, as the
Native sings zoom, as the helicopter
kills another deer—boom!

Fireworks and man celebrating man,
drunk off wine, because “God said
it was okay.”

So God is Jesus?  No.  Yes.

Words, the funniest things ever invented
I guess, sounds the truest form of
comfort, as eyes closed we entered
this world, screaming if alive,

blue babies like me silent and dying.

They say doctors saved me that day,
but I like to think an angel was there,
too.  Angels are acceptable entities
to atheists, who are “good people,”
so I guess “We’ll see.”

What strange Trumpisms have gotten
into our daily speak, wow, to meet
a foreign dictator—this is easy!!

I talk of God a lot, because without
the concept, I’d be dead—one way or
another, either the mere spiritual kind,
physically alive but unhappy.

Or the actual kind, physically under
ground, a spirit never soaring.

Will the Earth know I was here?

I like to think it notices when I plant
the apple tree—that was me!

I like to think it waves at me when the
wind blows us round our axis,
1000 mph.

Stats can whirl you away, if
not on firm footing, they say light
traveling at 186,000 miles per

A light year the distance light will
travel in a year, what are we doing here?

We are part of the stars, the earth a
rock of sun star, naming things taking
us away from the truth

until we lie awake on the last day
our bodies carrying a spirit,
some ideas, a couple cave drawings
and a great hope for loved ones
left behind to climb and explore
other rocks, stars, and connections
until they swirl to where you are

stars, dreams and Wow! It’s never
and always over at the same time,
“God,” Higher Power the rose as sweet
by many others, three-years old was
I, when naked I danced around
Mom, who danced around Dad, who
with me and you dance around suns
and time, proving there is at one time
God, None, Sun, Son, and time supplying
every excuse and reason to up and
do you best!

“To make an effort” why one is born,
to paraphrase Dombey & Son’s Mrs.
Chick, could be a great flick—the
writing of it another star to shoot!

Poof, the light of one is for all,
the space between things is nothing
and everything, our maximum human
effort the scream that is Heaven!

A far better goal, still, than John
Stuart Mill’s poor illusion, this false
god called “Education,” “College”
the very Roman god of horse manure—

a very fine fertilizer, but far from
actually being the sunflower.


Stairs to our Higher Power?

Rocks and waterfalls the native
American artform—their appreciation
and conservation?

The poet’s punch, the artist with paint
or a wheel, the gymnast in the air—

all of us a speck of dust, sun-sized to
the atom, electrons spawn to millions
of light years of nothing, everything, misses,
makes, you, me

and the wordless smile before sleep.

Wilson Lake


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San Marino used to have a lake.

(The San Marino in Southern
California, not the tiny country
in Europe.)

San Marino used to have a lake
until the settlers came, made
a claim, had ideas and acted
before asking what the land could
actually take.

Soon a guy named Wilson “bought”
God’s land, called it his, used all
that water to farm aggressively—
crops not always indigenous or
natural, or free.

“The lake had dried up into a swampy
morass due to excessive water usage
by local settlers”

an article reads.  So, then,

They brought the dirt down and filled
in the lake.

I have no judgments to make,
nothing biting or sharp, just
the observation that mistakes
mostly happen at high pace,
on the way to claim a lake—

or even on the way to the bank.

When we fail to ask before
we take—

The mass of swirl that is “Karmic
Gate,” opens up to teach us,

sometimes a hard lesson that will
be remembered and never again

Every choice has a consequence,
every single one—

so maybe it’s not the first thought
that should win, but a third
thought fought for, prayed
for, asked for and won.

Concrete River


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We fail to see what the Indian saw;
goalposts moved, the feeling is raw.

God gave all peoples land, but fate
brought white Euros away from theirs,

Hope was in the “New World,” except
that for it’s old inhabitants, a grave

challenge emerged from the golden
ships on the Eastern horizon, the

Atlantic bringing bibles, armor, guns,
horses and a love for gold not seen

by the decorated native soldier, the
adorned native explorer—who roamed

a wild land with ease, the world a
welcome mat to sleep upon, gather

and hunt.  A river was sacred, a waterfall
the same; trees, even rocks worshipped

as gifts from the Great Spirit.  Instead
of human art, a reveling of God’s art

was the native way; instead of a written
history or spirituality, there was one

passed down with poignant, well-placed
words and teachings, songs and music,

Ones about the “L.A. River” before it
was called that I’m sure existed.

It would be full and running wild at
times, dry and trickling at others,

through trees, brush and local wildlife—
including bands of Indian tribes,
grateful for the flow.

Civilization is a double-edged mess.
I think I like it.  I hate it.  I’m sad
about it, but sure like the plumbing!


What of the river?

Concreted over now, we took away
its beauty.

A crime by any view, there is no
possible way to support killing
it and doing God’s will, we stopped

the wild flow, the thrill.

We placed our destructive flag on
its top, moved wildlife off their spot,

Came with horses, buggies, then
cars and our own urinated rain,

the plumbing’s good, but we are

God’s Earth is full of things still
pristine, and those like the L.A.

That dies every day civilization soars,
roars and choppers rot.

I dream of a day when time

Get the Log Out


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“War is conducted like a funeral.
When many people are being killed,
They should be mourned in heartfelt
sorrow. That is why a victory must be
observed like a funeral.”
—Lao Tzu

It’s a tempting thing, to
criticize and judge everybody
else’s Tao Te Ching;

their way and truth, the what
they said and what they do.

“They need to de-nuclearize”
from a country with thousands
of nukes.

“Those MS-13 animals,” from
a country whose CIA backed the
murderers of El Salvador’s
Archbishop Oscar Romero.

We, the United States of
America, have a large log in
our eye, blinding us as we
seek to remove your splinter;

again and again we throw
weight around making noise,
as the old world shakes its head.

We “won” wars, which is
impossible, and ever since, have
thought ourselves great.

Wars are a necessary evil at best,
and should never be boasted

Lao Tzu’s got a feel for that,
Jesus of Nazareth six hundred
years later with words from God

to keep us happily, humbly

Babel being built in every
modern city until the next
mass shooting tragedy, God
still picking targets with the
help of hell’s favorite angel;

“From there the LORD scattered
them over the face of the whole

“I’m not good.  Only God is

“You cannot change the world.
It cannot be done!!”

But still we try, and we try,
which is why the United States
government often pulls splinters
out of the world, while failing
to remove the log from our
own eye.

False Gods


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Teachers and students are targets
because we have fallen for a great

That schools are good.

That schools will help a person
become “successful,” the modern
word for Heaven—

spirituality kicked out of modern
life, more and more.

God is being kicked out of politics,
schools, and even churches that
tout public prayer as good—despite
the teachings of Christ, who touted
private prayer.

Shopping centers and malls,
concrete and asphalt mixed with
high buildings to trap us and block
us from the glory of unfettered

We construct cages of learning,
worship and living, separate
ourselves from Creation, celebrate
our human abilities and “Oh,
aren’t we neat,” then—in a panic
of lost peace of mind…

A disgruntled student shoots
through all barriers, acts out to
feel something, and tears down
our walls of Babel in multiple
gruesome murders of innocent,
unarmed people.

Walls within walls, the shots tear
town walls.

Inside the walls, if not dead himself,
the shooter feels now.

Feels regret.

And a poet wonders why he still
lives in a modern city.

Should I Scream?


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The boy cried “Wolf!” for
the fun of it, the girl on the
schoolyard plays.

Songs sung run out of
fun the moment the class
door closes on reason.

A gun has come to school
today, because the learning
wasn’t real.  Other

people’s kids, do we care
enough?  The child broods
at the end of the bench,

the room with bright faces,
dark spaces, Dad’s drinking
at home—worse yet,

he has a collection of assault
rifles.  He seems more proud
of them than me.

Don’t go to school if it’s not
safe.  Don’t go anywhere, nor
do anything without great

thought or prayer first; meditate
on the cost, the benefit, the
right and the wrong.

In the days of old, there
were no “teachers” or houses
for learning; all was taught

from father to son, mother
to daughter, God through a
church that was a horizon of light,

morning to night, Nature
itself and its ways passed down
between people, old to young.

We want things to be easy,
part of a biblical sin called sloth
and gluttony; we forget

gratitude, count our blessings
drunk in a bar shooting craps,
jump in the hole, the cue

ball full of regret.

Wide is that path, “God” to
some a curse on the lips,
this isn’t life but a bag

full of tricks—


Scream, yes.  But take cover,
then stalk.  Stalk the stalker
and be better, not to kill

but to restore peace to the
moment.  Train.  Breath.  Give
nothing, be nothing, and rest.

Now listen.  Finally See the
danger, and take the natural
movements to restore order,

thanking your creator for the
wisdom, strength and agility.

Love the shooter back to
health, and everyone stop
driving cars at thirty-plus

miles per hour.  The best things
in life are slow, like the growth
of your wild flowers just

planted, the fruit tree needing
you and me.  Smell, and apply
your other senses enough to know

you never need a school to
to educate you.

Stop the Fucking Bus


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I’m married to the Man, the
tie ‘round my neck, starving
for the light of Tuscan rays
on a balcony of forgotten love

on the hopes like rays, eagle
flight the post rain ‘bow showing
gold at nightmare’s end, the
song of overwhelming seas

rising tides, a naked walk
into the canvas of stark
golden canyons and buttes,
mesas and plateaus—at one

time the arc of life of the
indigenous strife, apache war
cries in the night, scaring
tourists who fear their shadow,

as shadows have no ties.


The sign is bird crap on the
sill, sounds like rivers in my
ear as the waves call the bravest
in rows like dogs without tag,

Finally the rope loosens, and
the sand seems closer to your
toes.  You know you are X and
Y—European, Asian or from

somewhere old, African thunder
the drums of songs passed
down from generation to
another; white strangers judging

stomach as thin, the look not
as robust “compared to what”
while a dark monster in
restrictive sport coats inhabits

a place of supposed “power”
to separate mothers from their
children at an arbitrary human
“border” separating human

beings.  You there, me here. You
speak that, I this, and let’s
see what other things separate us,
the game of sinking garbage.

I want to get off!  I want out
the diesel burning a hole in my
lungs!  I want to wonder and
wander through the snow of

no one seems to know.  Go there.

Pitch a tent, and see what storm
rises, what the rain brings, the
sum of unknowns so large it must
be quite a tidal tsunami of love

sweat sulking in a corner finally
come out to call me one of
the beads.



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Let’s stick together, fend off
the other.

We used to be an “other” long ago,
but not me that was my
progenitor, not me—let’s go!

I’d rather be dead than caught
in the web; liberal diversity’s not
for me, I’m a Christian, just
the type who’s white, ticked
and armed, so back off.

Someone once challenged my
right to kill.  They were invading
my house, so I had to defend, but
in the army learned that shooting
for the torso of a human was
defending so killed him.

One must defend one’s family—
which is everything.  Blood relations,
keeping America white.

They say this was native American
before it was white European but I
kinda’ think that’s Fake News.

I ignore God when I want to
and cheer at Liberals’ defeat,
this is a war and I wanna win so
let’s kill as much as we need to
let’s win.

Stop ‘em at the border, kill
‘em if we must, build a wall,
Jews will not replace us.  Divide
and conquer’s not the devil’s
line—Believe Me!!

Let’s go to the rally!  Are you going?

So much winning; I love it
how we won all those wars.

Vietnam was fake news, we won
that too!

Kennedy had it coming, I love
CIA movies and their covert ops,
I wish I could take one now,
see all those babies separated from
their mothers at the border,
I’m Christian but the kind that
likes White Jesus, and sick
of the politically correct brown
one they cook up downtown
in what will become a sanctuary
city if we don’t spread Trump
fever fast and build that damn

When it Rains


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It matters not the darkness
before dawn, the two at one
needing each other to be
a proper show.

It’s dry and hot, which could
never excite a soul until
the storm clouds roll in
to change forever the state

if forever is a moment, nothing
is—and truth alluding poets
but seeking always we put our
cup out to the sun, wait.

There it is, the first drop
dropping calmly, lightly with a
ting, then another, more here
and there and the humming bird

buzzes by like firefighters not
away from the event but toward
it, they fire, they rain, the bird
wants a bath so sits with the drops

closes its eyes in ecstasy, shudders,
shakes its feathers to complete
the bath before finding a branch under
cover to avoid a drenching.

Boom the thunder hits from a
fare-off bolt, but this was not an
electric storm—more of a cleansing
wave, like the law man who finds

the perp burping in the sunshine,
smoking cigars, private jets, pinching
stewardess butts with a smile you’d
think only wine or money makes.

God, the view is good from up here
is a final thought as the plane goes
down, 10-20 years for money laundering
or some other hidden gem.

Wishing no harm on anyone,
unless the point of view of banks is
seen; then if you go there, you
know the people hurt when they

are robbed.  Dishonest is its own
crime, look at the board of ten
brought from God through Moses
upon the Jews, they’re good.

Cleansing is the rain; the storm
picking up, hitting the soil with what
it needs, the apple sprouting the bud
of weeds cramping gardener’s style,

so he gets online to buy more mulch,
poof, on its way, roses budding a creamy
winter of snow on the way against
this rare summer break!

Indictments are sure to come, just
as the mulch arrives, the weeds
relentless until we act, restore a level
of security and sanity to the hill.

Mueller uses not gas-powered crap
but hand to hand combat; God
is proud of earnest, humble work,
punishes the brash, but not before

they win some battles, look at the
South for five years keeping slaves
trapped, little skirmishes won and
lost, guerrilla fighting the tough

life of the rebel.  “We cannot change
the world, it cannot be done” echoes
on an Asian valley butterfly, flying
through the passage of time,

Wondering if mankind, women too,
could all get together, realize we’re
from the same general stuff, rain
water and sun, blood of Earth, the

swim of that stewardess, like a
caterpillar, becoming Flight Attendant
with a lawyer, smart on the game
so she could win, and the butt

pincher faces twenty to life now
for lying to the FBI about killing
Democracy.  The court almost laughed—
not down here, but on the planet

far off that runs us.  “Democracy!” they
laughed and almost fell off the
cliff of the universe, where they stand
and spy.  “People-rule!” gets them

busting up full, and they float down
to Earth through a black hole eating
underwear under there, causing
a great earthquake, followed by

a tsunami, the rains piling up,
a flood rising until Man once
again finds its wisest stance and
repeated mantra through captivity

toward eternal freedom from care:

“We are powerless,” smiled the
orange criminal.

And a lone flower burns on the
hillside of summer untouched,

Making ash for even democracy
to change, become wine from water
and confuse us back to powerlessness
over and over until Samuel gets

out of his cage-like grave, walks
up that dang hill, and makes an
unseen God king again; He’ll
have to do it tomorrow, too if

we wake, my friend—for whatever
progress we made today, it
will rain, and we will wonder if
before it does we laid down enough

seed, to feel the peace of mind
that turns words around, turns
our efforts on themselves, returning
us all to Tao Te Ching-like calm,

the uncarved block, the dawn,
our own birth.  Wordless

and Perfect.