Under my brother's mural...looking to the light from the upstairs coming in

From the bed where I languished... once upon an afternoon-sunny bland-until-I-imposed-a-remedy I lay there w/the duality of serenity & dead-soul. I conjugated my 1 plus 1 effort, suddenly knowing my neighbor w/his spiritual machinations enthused a fusion of the ineffective-me to the vital now/I could be both! My conga drum at the foot of my bed, always w/a telegraphed presumption--this calling toward the blue outward fact & skies--yawned while my nephew (Aaron) puttered around upstairs. So I call him down to my basementCRAFT; an impetus to say something w/my hands & the voice would be secondary & readied. I said,"Listen it's something I learned, not to forget, on this drum.". So a slowed-down resumption of analysed-afternoon glum came to my hands w/a hesitation in the pattern half-way through. This is when I raised my hands even higher, closer to his face: Look at it linger, I thought. He saw it, & I am going backward in time...then in obedience to fixed notion that freedom of thought is his kind of atonomy--To relate w/ youth is formulaic FOR freedom & I wanted attention ON having always placed a half-full cup in the WAY of release, to sift into liking it for the context of an inner-dwelling.

NEAR KENTON'S bluehole--a spring on Parker's Mill

Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my neighborhood had to offer (after 27 yrs, I moved)--its extension out over by the farm on Parker's Mill not 3mls from the Bluegrass Airport. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossacks stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems of these yesteryears, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachancha, a kind of military wagon (Soviet), not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US--how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise et cetera), & horses--the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree looking off into their field on this ubiquitous KY horse farm. The doom of destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made IT important to me. I called it my own, LIVED up to my expectations, & gathered no more than wall-flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.

Living on REBEL rd.--RADIO-FREE-LEXINGTON djing then

The imagery behind "this" scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house here on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because I was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical ams, before getting-up & after the light of am. trapped my eyes from leaving my dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand on the stepping razor of blood images from my grandmother-(granny) emerging from my heart... (a black velvet shadow of projected self) if we begin to set the plates for the mindsore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly unrealism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

See April's 2006POEM** //THis one is a RED FLY tip

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem-tree (as such I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the CURRENCY of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--it's a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise which would leave me gainful of expression: I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/ expectations on par w/ the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other side" into Mother Earth & define their opposition to it i.e. to that of the "other side" the sitra archa--the ch is a Kuh sound as in cuss. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting out.