S.B.T. 334

S.B.T. 333

for the love of it

what was taken from a passing wind of everyday life, to record vicissitudes of history poetically?

a word, chosen from the tangle, rescued from darkness and given a song, unchained melody,

i shall appropriate the word, with emotional sensitivity without artifice or forced redemptions it might be acrobatic, or tap lightly, or hit like a slap, or fall like leaves and lace released in an unimpeachable creative honesty and caught by an irreplaceable feeling___ say what?

desiring further recourse, i shall fuel the page with a lengthy partition

in the attempt to quench and satisfy my free thirst for meaning.

orangecherry lovelipop

S.B.T. 332

abel

merla


merry christmas

two of the ones i said goodbye to, who left the shelter and went to their new homes finally and hopefully happily.
goodbye sweet little ones, sigh, take care, and merry christmas!

each and every one is

a precious gift and i hope

they are received with gratitude

and met with love and friendship, happiness and lots of play,

good food, toys, attention and smiles.

and i hope good people will open their hearts and homes to homeless shelter critters.

amen.

S.B.T. 331

flagrante delicto

catch

a ball hurling

toward the glove

from a pitch wound round

it comes

from where

it goes how it lands

a trail w/skidmarks

this one come open

tossed 2 the bullpen

markt X with a sharpie

and rolled in2 a dead ball bin

a new one sails to the mound

windup, throw, hit,

catch it getting

caught

the ref shouts OUT

oh beautiful green in the field

collective dirt and dew

wind rambles thru

blades waving

S.B.T. 330

b u l l f r o g

sometimes a really big bullfrog

is not the way it seems

tho i recognize the face and eyes

from seeing them in dreams

S.B.T. 329

a mirror

a gentle pool

of wishes

in a jungle

and a drop falls

and rolls

among all other

wobbles, swells

and dreams

come true

S.B.T. 328

i watch cloudbodies

rolling skyway

gears turned up

to vibrate wind

thus

i can better know

what i cirrusly think

"i've looked at clouds...", wink

S.B.T. 327

stars

at the last

picture show

before the trucks..stop

scattered shots..s

of our laughing

ssstarss

rolling s..silently

and s..softly

because

you know,

they s..sound the s..same

from every s..s..side

starss

S.B.T. 326

strange magic

i am sixteen years old, i live in miami, a transplanted new englander, with my grandparents who were born in greece and speak the language routinely. i have an intrinsic understanding from hearing it and have learned to read and write with after-schooling twice a week in the back rooms of the church at home, now greek is becoming almost fluid, maybe more like atmospheric with a little turbulence. i am convinced there are waves crashing on rocky islands, and goatbells in it.

this miami is a new world, i've been dispatched forthwith to help my grandmother who is recuperating after surgery - because of some trouble at home, i 'ran away' a few times on adventures. so now i am enrolled at the high school near mahmi (she isnt called yiayia) and pappou's neat little neighborhood, the 23rd Terrace, southwest. i am intrigued that the streets are called terraces.

stars nod silently as if in time, it's half past ten, strumming my guitar in the 'florida room', an airy porch in the back with slat-glass windows, terra cotta tile and furniture made of bamboo cane. floppy swirling palm leaf pillows, straw mats and a folding card table. i see a tiny green lizard race across the tiles and disappear under the loveseat. i miss my friends. still i wouldnt trade this for that. this is the tropics, i turn down the lamp and tiptoe to my room.

weekday mornings i to walk to school, taking a route from the terraces straight out to the miracle mile

the colors of the jewels and fabrics, feathery and fine, draping

scarves and sundresses, beaded necklaces whisper breezily

ghost trails of a lingering silken fantasy...

it is strange and magical. on the miracle mile time has a scent of cinnamon and blossoms are spilling from balconies over my shoulder. i can hear my shoes on the pavement. from the stillness a pulse builds and emerges from the manicured marble below my feet. the cyprus trees seem to breathe, the tall palms wave. the light is so pure my irises shiver so my eyes divert to the windows of the sleeping shops.

it's still early and everything except the bakery is closed. i peer past my reflection into the darkened showrooms one after another in a blur of motion as i walk along, spotting a bit of sensual gauze or a flash of sparkling amber. i search for magenta because it seems like the richest color in the world. it vibrates in its own neonic glory...oh neonic.. .owneonic...όνειρα γλυκά

oh-neerrrah nglee-kah 'sweet dreams'

i'm transfixed by the tactile possibilities. there are so many things that i yearn to touch. to hold to feel in my hands and gaze at long and steady. i believe fashionable butterfly wings could be wearable and functional too. maybe somewhere in one of these shops...made of some alien-sourced silk/metal diaphanous blend lighter than air and strong enough to sail through a hurricane. after all, this is the hurricane capitol, miami...mon ami..mi amigo

i'm coming up on a row of shops all entirely made of glass, taken in by a deep green shawl with pearls and various gems sewn along the edges and long fringe on each end curled perfectly and bouncing with glitter. i stop, i press my face into the glass and stare. the sheer beauty of it is overwhelming. as an accomplished seamstress i know about fine fabrics and their qualities. it is in my genes. handiwork from day one through a hundred mingling generations. i just want to touch it. i would soak the rich green color through my fingertips into my veins and it would make my lips turn purple, if i could just touch it.

a little voice says 'try the door'. how odd i think but what the heck, i push slightly on the glass door and...it opens. i'm totally awestruck, the shop is dark, and no one in attendance. magnificence with peculiarity. 'i wish there were some lights' i think, trying not to disturb anything, while there are luxurious treasures everywhere, gathered in baskets, arranged on tables, willowing on garment trees. i have walked into a fairy tale spun by a dream. i have been alchemystically transported to a secret glittery world by some gigantic unseen hand of fate. the one clapping. there is no ending and that was long ago...

today i wandered into a nearby yard in search of animal traps. backstory about the property and the sparkling big house that now stands on the lot that once was a haven of wild creatures and old oak and spruce, blueberries and raspberries and grapes: now there is a stylish conspicuously modernized captain-style three-story house. the owners are retired and live in florida in the winter, but have stopped coming the last two summers and a 'for sale' sign is out on the street.

i spotted one of the feral cats in the woods behind the house, it is easy to know their areas around here because you just have to follow the little trails. 6 inch narrow pathways through the underbrush. pathways cut by the cats that have been here for decades. pathways that lead to hunting grounds and food sources. clearcut shrub paths that you cant miss.

the house is set near the edge of the wood and a deeper clearing became a rather spacious front lawn. it's an awkward layout in every way but on a small "surrounded lot" deep off the main road with access issues there are limited options. the day the grove came down was hard to withstand. as if felling the proud old trees wasnt enough, they cut back the wall of lilacs and honeysuckle that separated the lots to accommodate "10 foot space around property lines" code. my grandfather planted those lilacs and honeysuckles when he had to sell off the acreage behind him which went all the way to the sea. before the depression, that had been my grandfather's land.

it's quiet, the driveway is empty. the indian summerish morning is warm, placid and pristine. cracked shells embed the walkway to the front door. crackling with my steps. yellow asters bow along the edge with tufts of miniature daisies like petticoats underneath. dark red brick steps lead to the front door. to the right of the doorknob, inlaid in the antique barnboard trim is a brass clamshell. it is a buzzer and i push it and hear a tinkle tinkle bell inside echoing. i press it again. no answer, as expected. i was about to turn away when i hear that little voice again "try the door".

inside, the floors are gleaming hardwood. in the dining area under the formidable pale wood table is a blue-tone carpet with words written in the design, "beaches" and "vacation" and "sailing" and "happy days", words in white, navy and gray on a rich blue background crossing over and weaving into eachother.

the top floor has windows that are high enough to see over the tips of the houses circling the edge of the harbor. once small cottages now are gigantic mansions, without the benefit of more space to accommodate. you cant have a regular sized house any more to get a shoreline view. i'm sure that's why they built this one with three stories. at the far end under the arched window is a big electric organ, with hefty wooden pedals in a very candy-slick cherry finish looking like a real outstanding musical thingamajig.

there is a tiny little sink in the middle of the room. i suspect the beginning of a fifth bathroom. or a place to rinse the cocktail glasses. a cozy wraparound sofa in gold and earthtone colors w/ thick punchy embroidery trim and ever so many coordinating pillows lines the curve of the wall facing the harbor. and a giant tv screen is perched in there too. i ponder borrowing it, i reason they probably have hidden cameras watching right now so they know its me and i say so "hi" "i'm just borrowing this"

to no one in particular

except alas it is much too awkward to carry. i'll just sit here and flip it on...

S.B.T. 325

"well we were cooolzzzville..."

he this man, this apebeast evening, will choose

a patch of burlap fray to shine a piece of carbon

til its brighter than the day

the rainbow prickly colorpool lay waiting -

delightful, she said wickedly, as hard as lard

and stone

the pillar of consistency, ionical on loan

her feathers slickt on suet

no matter how they tried,

lovedripping pearls were sewn and twirled

around her wristband hide

all the elastics in hurtsville snapped

that apebeast evening

when one hand clapped

enlightenments not easy

language comes off cheesy

compared to what is shone

in the marrow of the bone

S.B.T. 324

get the cans out

yes, i remember the night

it was chilly that evening,

i had a blanket over me

like a tent, in the dark

watching twilight zone repeats

a shadow thru the filtered light

descended, scalloped

shape

inverted

unmistakeable

webbed

pattern

oh no

a bat

WW 'o' WW

S.B.T. 323

kinematic questions

how can i deliquesce of myself?

what ransacked rubble translates to unsling what is prejudged to be?

am i missing? the portal to cascade books?

the counter to crouch morroccan-style at a declassified table?

(what's my sabbatical for backstroking to defend my ness and garnished habits?

if it's to carry better, will it codify algorithmic klaxons to habilitate love?

am i on a horizon of circumnavigating carouses or of magnetizing furls?

institutionalizing a concensusing job

reenforced out of a fungicidal relationship?)

do i solicitate oklahoman or the mustang that gallup with success?

could i resound hypersexual as an adventure?

if i was on a waul of hardening urina or of defrocking menaces

in order to haggle better, will it feel troutier with hebrew to budge?

which mistimed token label from repopulating scoops of the past

is the shaker (or obstacle) exhibiting?

if so, which sensitivity will i list it in this time?

when i'm instigated to tether the godhood track,

what nuthatch do i trot to myself,

or macaw with the snoutier plan?

how can i recontract in savours?

ask a baiter to be a typhoon buddy? join an overstaying club?

what am i bushelling in my elder thats gravitating letting twist weal with miaou?

what batchers of telly should i disregard to haft whole?

if u r shoed be happy?

one mans tree

S.B.T. 322

has the stolen angel been found?

i have a website, not www tho accessible from www, not searchable cuz its just not because its not www - its there nonetheless, at dot mac which is a separate universe with images of my artwork by invitation only, which i know incrementally can leach out nonetheless it affords a thin shield of intelligenuflect protection as it is reworked and aimed at targets often enough...

there, is an angel, this angel

..................................................v

backstep one moment

i designed a logo/banner for a healing arts website. a lightworker sic, heart point,

etc

ok maybe i'm too picky

but the theory goes that the energy you put out attracts like energy. thats a theme across the nonboard.

i immediately realized it was me. and i stole something. once. a long time ago, after school, age 12. a tiny bottle of 'evening in paris' perfume. which i stared at in my hand, opened it and sniffed and finally headdown feet of brick went and returned it because just looking at it made me feel sick. and it didnt smell that great either. pathetic, eh but thats how i was trained early on. i wasnt threatened with lakes of fire or anything, just the idea that you have to live with yourself if you knowingly do something that isnt 'good'. on any level stealing was not 'good'. no excuses. its just not good, get it? basic. sure sure mitigating circumstances, however, still not good. and if you dont care about good then join the narciss sissy isms on parade and get outta my face i have a job to do - uh thats probably not good either

back to the logo banner design. upon completion my benefactor suggested adding a link to my private website. hmmmm i thought ok, probably not likely to start a stampede thru the link, and maybe, it will bring business ok i'll try it. ok i said.

admittedly it ran thru my mind that the people who gather as lightworkers wont be thieves, not likely they will misuse, and they'd like some of the work no doubt. because these are lightbeings after all. however i learned backwards that they may be a target market...

in a phone chat my benefactor asked if i'd been contacted by the angel lightworker named L. no, i said, who is L? well, shes an angel practitioner who went to the link and liked your angel and was able to download it and put it on her website. i told her she needed to ask your permission and gave her your contact info. "she stole my angel?" i gasped, thinking of evening in paris and karma, but i brought the perfume back i realized so it isnt me. aha! the other night i put a coupon for one dollar twenty five on some cat food and it minused twelve dollars and sixtynine cents! did i run to the store manager? no, i was doing the selfcheckout. aha! small bad things. she stole my angel.

all right, its bigger than twelve dollars and sixtynine cents. the angel is worth a lot more. but it doesnt matter. small bads weigh the same as large ones.

nonetheless i fumed and demanded the perpetrators address. which my benefactor didnt have on hand ahem. perhaps its a "thank god for unanswered prayers" thing. perhaps its a conspiracy. perhaps my benefactor and L are manufacturing my angel on lampshades in taiwan. because ten years ago i worked for a company that manufactured offshore a serious patriotic no-no!

but still well-matched by copyright infringement. sigh.

footnote: credit for the source of the stolen angel, L. banishment otherwise

in the meantime, i'll be writing a story

S.B.T. 321

"if i had a hammer, i'd hammer in the mo or ning"

hurry if there is something you can do

"...when the lord gets ready, you gotta move"

the song of the morning presses in

fog over the chugging tugboat outspirational

serpentine red flags above the coach twisting twirling

diffused in light, dissolution glow

warbling crickets

beginning with the most flagrant selftalk

and ending with sword in stone concrete memories

these words spill into silence

the churbling of a thrush and skycall of

canadian geese

S.B.T. 320

in the sand

close touch all calm

beating endless ness

little body upright

walking in the sand

no cloud can stir

this changelessness

blank sheer clear

dream the passing

hour of figment light

that never was always is

all gone from mind

on all sides of earth and

sky at long last issueless

all sides endless true refuge

scattered down four walls

over backwards no sound

sandwalk

S.B.T. 319

two mnutes

for a good laugh, go here

S.B.T. 318

the dark side

the forthrising field was preplanned at the same time a secret sect was investigating synapse control, and small children were dreaming of typewriters, a serious typewriter with a tv screen attached. more like a tv box with a typewriter soldered at the front. you could type in someone's name and immediately see what they were doing, even if they were asleep. it was fascinating.

it was somehow disney-related too.

in the decades that followed events played out that prepared the ground for an avalanche of fertilizer that was spread over the field, a specially formulated electrocompost. reflections of associated foreboding found an outlet in the gutsy metalplastics and tiny l e d's scattering seeds.

there was a time oprah had an "a new earth" massive teleconference, and millions of people talked about feeling "the shift". that is the name of a new dance, btw. called "the shift".

can be done with a hula hoop, optional. starry-eyed,

full of love brimming, satiated, waking to a dawning full of pink light,

those are among the steps. we were waiting for the music.

and waiting.

so we made our own, working was better than tapping our fingers. and it was instant delayed gratification. and flowers blooming all over again. shift or no shift. and all of the highlights of the last four decades displayed randomly on a conveyor belt, a giant palette. upon which you can dip your brush into any color, you can paint one day on newsprint and toss it out the next day. you can pick one tweed jacket off of the hanger and brush the lint off the shoulder. it can take all day to repaint the weave ha ha. by evening you have the jacket on and now are shining your shoes. there is nothing insignificant, there's just not enough space. being happy doesnt always mean feeling that way.

so today the grandson of a portuguese fisherman's wife, a man so girded he can balance a piano on his pointing finger, came and carried away the old sofa and living room chair. i was glad to see them go, they were completely chewed up. space, ah. a futon, neat and trim, moved in, along with a simple folding saucer chair of magenta pink cushioning. i am ready for the storm.

S.B.T. 317

click on pic see the bee

where were we.....

rose-of-sharon.....

under the empire sun.....

touching heavens edge.....

dream in the wake.....

of arising moments.....

according to phenomena.....

gestures and sign language.....

emembrances r hidden.....

in time they may reveal.....

why i chose not to awaken.....

this very moment.....

might then be even.....

more lovely than trumpets.....

lustrous and fleeting.....