S.B.T. 433

the capture of the cosmos story pt. 1

tis a blond faierie with pink roses trilling a beehive doo

draped like Stevie Nicks in lace shawls fringes trailing sparkles

{

she’s riding her faithful dog/horse - the front is a unicorn/collie. the rear a palomino followed by whom I first thought might be the Lord himitself but whom, in humility, doesnot show a face but rather bends forward backlit looking down - however he is carrying a net/bag sling over his back  with a fat pink crab dangling inside, he’s wearing a wide beavertail hat, seems normal enough - beside him R 2 habitat-dwelling animals: the cat/cow, the fox/deer, each with backtale but for now tis cat/cow keeping watch w/eyes of dynamo-tion mooooving as all presssw forward in unlimiti infiniti floating through space…cough….and so the thing about it is, they don’t realize that the capture shows them being pulled in a different direction, by a giant friendlymessenger pit bull, with singleminded eyes, than the one they thought/fought they were doing to do.  then on the right side there is someone in the future running away skipping off really totally not interested…….

S.B.T. 432

sweet pungent pine needles bruised by summer heat

mellowed in the winter draped with snow

yellow cliffs red clay dwellings distant thundering beat

part the clouds - peel back the sky and glow

“silver apples of the moon” “Hi Ho Silver, Away!” 

silver is not often used in titles

for transformative stunning effect

but can be a bracelet slipped onto your wrist

here the maestro Alan Silvestri, amidst

loveliness and cool stuff

Music by Alan Silvestri

S.B.T. 431

By stroke of luck,  which a day ago I declared a life half-full of, Bernard Herrmann showed up. There he appeared between trees, with his dog, sauntering down a shady lane, both paused half-turned staring with stock-still camera eyes. During this last week I ‘d sensed something was coming, a slowly amping up vague feeling that disquietude was pending, uncertainty of, like, not-a-clue.

though, in anticipation, spying about, a low belly panther creeping under lush canopies in full daylight trying to peek at you my prey from behind the tall grasses and jungle trees near the shore. 
yeah, noticing the illumination of certain  seemingly domran, modnar, and random, chances given in correspondence to previously spoken word(s. 
that’s how it works, so ask for it, politely, at first.

So here he is, Bernard and Twi the dog, kindly and gladly championing multimedia mewzic, all at once several stories high on the street where you live. Unbelievable. At first anyway, but now quite for sure believable - um, let’s say, it’s “there”.  We were engaging in half-serious plans about a partnership in the offing as long as no offence could be taken or offered by any others in the league.  Off the fence, he’s often sitting around here somewhere.

S.B.T. 430

wild possums fight

in the middle of the night

dogwood spines tingle and shake

the grasses bend, the stars spin

shrieks splatter the stillness
sharp pellets

and echoing howls

“did you hear them?” my neighbor asks in the morning,

new shadows made in the days sunlight

patch a pattern over his face

 like a melody

in a minor key

the furies subside, leaving
a wordless question

a silent answer

young helen keller 

played by Patty Duke

throwing food screaming

pounding the table

then one day a word

penetrates the dark

giving a form where only

infinite puzzlement came before

natural developments

ferns and fibonaccios

and the skeining of

silk threads

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poem off the grid

fie   it says

  scope

and 

lo gong\\\\\ \ \ \

“to heap 31”

diagonal 

lee

yes

vaguely skennedy

sh…fife

no pie

silly con valet 

epic 

market 

figure

love lies 

haute tell in laos

to the left

nothing else 

but a fffew lonely F’s

stranded

and this guy 

lenny rockbotham

whisky autopilot

shiny new jag

S.B.T. 428

Ned Rorem




_________**_________ in a tunnel - a natural state - if i keep walking at least i get onward. it was constructed for empaths to be able to get around town without a barrage. for air there are 3 holes every 3 1/2 feet, arched over the headway. enough natural light comes through to give it a copper glow. chiaroscuro otherwise. walking along from the park to C’est La Vie cafe for french roast thinking this isnt truly a great place even if it’s less dangerous. i mean, you’re walking along the tunnel and some of the random thoughts that find their way through those holes are doozies. i mean they're concentrated, they hitcha like a paint ball. just when i thought, ah finally i’m free. rule: freedom respite required but i’d rather not go on the surface, up there i’d be waiting at the crosswalk, waving down a cab, watching bags swaying. stormy. but i do miss noticing the shapes of things. i mean there is only one shape down here: tubular. it’s big enough for a motor scooter but they have to be electric according to regulation, people do ride bikes but it’s kind of rude the way they do it, sneaking up, zooming past, laughing too much. a walkers nightmare. yes empaths can be rude. it’s natural under the circumstances.

S.B.T. 427

this “young” man, his posture centered around a thick cylindrical neck, which he thrusts forward like a dog would, offering the jugular to one he trusts, is a soul after all, seeing things his, or it’s way (as it is possible that the core has no duplicities) and you can tell by the glint of his eye that he is onto something BIG. that is, he KNOWS it, he FEELS it, it is his THING. bless him in all his savvy coolness. Max Wolf.