S.B.T. 399

karma returns to the boss

whomever you judged and how often 

you looked away as one cried out,

again those criticized, held in focus, 

were up for contempt or cast into doubt

ahead of their times, 

with an essence of tao—

we've known it since then, 

we still know it naow,

of course it'd be shocking to learn 

respect was one perk you'd not earn

blessing: 

one can do "well" 

and still not do right.

on witness do tell,

salute, say good night

to dishonor.

amen. 

S.B.T. 398

old age is pretty

tabitha showed up suddenly on the eve of a golden autumn jewel of a day.

the child of my half-sister and her first husband. whose birth i awaited and attended with precognitive excitement. so much art was generated during the months tabitha was germinating. her birth was a thrill indescribable. i bought her first pair of shoes, tiny pink strawberry sneakers.

but then sis's marriage derailed after a few years, and the little strawberry angel-child moved to cincinnati. sis's 2nd marriage brought her out to wyoming, and gave her another daughter and 2 sons. but i only knew them through pictures and stories. and tabitha all but vanished in the melee of changes during those years. now and then she'd briefly touch base, like when she'd come back to stay with her father for a short time, but that didn't happen regularly. and at a few clan get-togethers after she'd gotten a car and could get places. no matter how much time or distance between connections, she always remembered me.

so we sat in the garden-room, listening to the fountain bubbling, splayed out on the pink saucer chairs, and it seems there is always some call for pink around tabitha. and she was talking so fast, catching her words was like cllnging onto the last car of a runaway train. she's flashing pics of her wedding a year ago and her trip to spain. so fast i could barely see them and had to ask her to slow down a few times. but her slow was still my fast. finally, i said something i'd heard my mother say to me "for me, you've got to go a little slower". 

she did try, but at the speed of light everything flowed in a rushing stream punctuated by splashes, touching and lighting upon something, ever so quickly. and here she was telling me her younger sister was born well after the techno blast so she comes with devices built in more or less, which she said "makes her do everything really fast". 

in comparison my mind moves rather slowly. i like to hang onto words and images a bit before letting them go. i mull at length, and tabitha mulls for a split second before getting onto the next plane.

anyway, i'm sure you know the feeling of "smiling inside", which i remember as a yoko ono contribution from some time in the 80's.

S.B.T.397

irresistible forces 

A

time 

to gather 

winter 

stock 

has arrived unannounced, carrying a basket with bread and berries 

"none can be denied yet some demand the denial of others"

"though at least 7 are high priority and all are crucial," 

"ths friction can create a conflagration" 
that might change 
everything you 
know

but this

is no time

for heroics

get   the

h     o

S.B.T. 396

corresponding keys

avoid beginning a paragraph with a question, like the head of a snake, everything after it wriggles. in fact, never question anything. the whole issue about questioning is largely engulfed in the context of schooling, scheduling and protocols.

however you can write something like

"Where did the time go?" he wondered, blinking through the dusty window of the time machine, where he'd fallen asleep in the 14th century when men wore leather cod-pieces and must've accidentally snored or something and tripped the gauge that landed him in the present now.

i suppose i could say that you should always put quotes around a question. or give it a line of it's own. if you must. but my advice is to get rid of questions entirely.

should we leave it at that?

S.B.T. 395

Finite Element Analysis

An FEA agent, that's what i was, tho i didnt want to be that, but i realize now it wasn't who i am,  just what i did, and somewhat egolessly i might add — it never felt like anything other than service, to my higher-ups, industry, the public, god. i made it my game to make the best quality products possible, using eager talented artists and a variety of manufacturing facilities then watching the ticker-tape sales roll in.

i remember one time feeling happy about it. a bonus check,  if i remember correctly, that took my breath away, it was huge for me. but, just once, i only walked on air once, in chicago, after i was on my own, that is, after i left the company — what happened in chicago is another story, for now let's just say the angels were singing. 

scratching my head, i couldn't remember any outstanding events thrilling to my soul and spirit making me proud of myself, all such were tinged with regrets, not truly worthy. except maybe the time i enjoyed my first single malt scotch in a really posh upscale star-studded cocktail lounge in NY. i don't care much about those things now, not to mention pride itself ahem cough cough i could never find it worthwhile then to be happy about just one small thing, like getting an award, helping or saving someone's life. small things, yes. you never know what a big thing might actually be. like a really good vacuum design could be big.

Bakhita, that was her name, the saint, the woman from africa who was canonized in 2000 — that, is big.

please talk FEA and send letters with your personal advice to vacuum cleaner designers the world over, there is a crisis in utility/function/design rampant, insidious and embarrassingly pretentious which only we can rescue guerrilla-style

S.B.T. 394

she was a poet 

who knows why 

words splashed onto paper

filling pages

not pretty really, 

dark throbs

truly curly

smoke rings

eyes on fire

isolate, desolate 

world-weary wise

no one understands anyway

he was a comic

who knows why

pictures splashed on papers

alighting screens 

not pretty really

surly truly

ticklish too

eyes of blue

dark, throbbing

isolate, desolate

world-weary wise

no one understands anyway

S.B.T. 393

peter pan

if you tell me with words, 

a string of pearls 

a veil of  ether moss, 

your lips move  

but i can not see your eyes. 

so modest! 

and so devout. 

your words may be precious, 

scented, light as saffron powder 

lustrous and green like malachite 

the ease found in rhythm 

renders rock weightless 

somehow by magic

i can't see my shadow,  

a disguise that turns permanent

specially curved lenses
all matters of invention 

and creatures of adventure
seeking meeting and seeing  

who the other one is,
dear little tinkerbell