I trailed along the sunlit sea

beneath a hope that lifted me.

A fellow busted from on high,

the nights were long, the time was nigh.

These days the grateful spend their grace

on roasted beans but save some face

with secret longings laced with pain

until their love comes round again.

We eke our livings and our word

from news reports, or haven’t you heard

the voice within that tells the truth

of creation’s mighty, daily proof.

I’ll find the next thing that I do

and give it all for me and you.

Or I’ll give it up so I can see

the secrets of our destiny.

i’m seeing through these eyes that appeared to be

appeared to me appear to know

which way I go and you alongside

climbing whatever you have settled for

liberation doesn’t bother you

whatever you’re settled with

liberation don’t bother me

you are there

you are settled

with you there i be

with that’s who you are

that’s who I am

you cad you sod

may your journey be easeful as you allow

(meaning it won’t be at all)

not overly painful

and even your great grasping

your simple ungrasping

may it bring succor

to the same mysterious process

in all

The bubble of soft understanding goes on beyond that day in the 80s when the earth shook us off her mighty mantle like a mangy cur flinging itchy fleas out of her fur, snapping at our preciousness, stomping us into her hard ground, bridges flattening, coffee houses collapsing, bricks dropping away from on high. Oh, I remember the rumbling of the window frames, not from trucks passing by in the streets but magma flowing down deep, through cracks set by city planners of yore and misunderstandings of place and control gone to our human heads like something predestined yet forgotten.

The day I found 65 words in my mind was the day I finally understood the way things work around here. First comes the thought, and then it manifests in some way into waking reaility. So, this is what you do. You look at what you expect and then look at what you’ve got, and Bob’s your uncle. You can now create whatever you want.

“The tread that you take only serves insomuch as to awaken you from the stuff of dreams,” said the cohort on her left.

And he did seem to be dreaming, she noticed, with his closed eyes moving rapidly like the stinging flies that darted along the flowing river of song.

Nip, nip, nip, they bit as they impelled the rhythms of the beat that tried to repeat the melody and inspire the choral chords of the chorus longing in her ears.

Oh, how she longed to finish her sweet song. The one that told of the blue highways the width of two horse’s asses winding for miles and miles along the changing countryside and the muddy white vehicle the brothers drove to reach their unknown destination.

One brother sat in the driver’s seat clutching the steering wheel in one hand, right foot ready to brake from cruise control as he drove, using his free hand to crack open roasted, unsalted peanuts and toss the tasty legumes into his mouth, brewed yellow tea in the spill proof cup between his legs.

Although he did his best to dispose of his nut-munching detritus in a hard plastic container in the cup holder on the side, bits of broken shells and flakes of red nut skin surrounded him and settled into the car like Pig-Pen in the comic strip Peanuts by Charles Schulz.

The other brother did his best to laugh at the mess his elder sibling made and carefully sliced horseradish cheese onto a paper towel and prepped a bag of tart cherries for consumption by them both as Bob Dylan played on the stereo.

If she could only get the beat and the lyrics right, she knew her song would be a hit. The tale was such a classic, of two now retired brothers traveling cross-country to visit the remainder of their family back East where they had both been born, along thousands of miles of lanes and roads almost exactly the same width the ancient Romans had built over two millennia before.

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?

How many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?

Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly before they’re forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

The thread by which she and her cohorts in the international songwriting seminar hung was a slender one involving both curiosity and creativity, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She began humming the melody that had just come to her. Yes, that just might work.

Wyso pulled at the crumpled tab on the top of his nub. The melted plastic encasing him was of the crinkly, thicker type, the kind used to cover English cucumbers.

Cucumbers could be eaten in many ways, to scoop bean dip or in salads or layered in sandwiches.

Ah, sandwiches. Wyso had a dim memory of sandwiches, filling the mouth with such delicious chewiness.

He could not open his own mouth now, much less take the stiff plastic covering off his nub. That went against the entire order of things and would accomplish nothing useful anyway.

So what if he exposed his nub to the world and the elements? What would happen? Would he be free like in dreams of flying up far above the clouds in the sky to sweep and dive in the forever blue of creation?

He stared out through the glass covering of the container. He was in a gray corridor and could not really move much at all.

The one behind him never spoke. He tried turning to see her, but only caught a brief glimpse of golden hair and a stiff, sad smile.

“Do you hear me, beautiful girl?”

Was she lonely?

Wyso said, “Maybe this world isn’t really worth the effort. But isn’t there something you find interesting?”

He thought he heard a faint whisper. “Barbie.”

Wyso felt his pulse quicken and something almost palpable thicken in him as her words eked out.

“Beautiful?”

“So beautiful that my nub is fit to burst, my dear Barbara.”

Myso heard her cry and felt a lone tear roll down his own cheek, slipping slowly over the hothouse cucumber plastic and pooling down his legs at his feet.

“Do not cry, dear one. Though I am serious, I am also profound and loving, I really am.”

“Wyso serious?”

Which happened to be the precise moment when the child turned the knob on the vending machine and Wyso fell down the long tunnel on his way towards his next adventure.

Get a juicy lemon, a copper penny, and a zinc galvanized nail and stick the penny and nail in the lemon without touching each other. You have just created a battery, since the electrolytic properties of the lemon’s juices with the two different metals produces voltage. Wire enough lemon batteries in a series and you can power, for instance, a light bulb.

(This is an abstract prose poem examining the inside of love as a verb from the opposite direction. Confused? Me too, and I do love you all. Promise. Enjoy.)

They have all these animals running around in the house pooping, eating, rubbing up against your calves, peeing, hay allergies on their faces in various places.

They make noises at night that make you feel slight.

What’s with all these animals?

They’ve got names like Odin and Mittens and Mickey and Orey, and I’m pretty sure the animals themselves don’t know those names.

But, then again, do I really know my own name? Do I call myself by the name Mark? I do not think so. No, I don’t.

Odin’s in my lap right now, licking the outdoor scum off his paws with his tongue. What’s going on, buddy? What’s going on?

He spreads his paws wide as I stroke his fur and tickle his chin.

Bunghole.

I call him, Mr. Duker and say, “You’re yawning, Mr. Duker. Why are you yawning? You’ve been napping all bloody day.”

He digs his claws into my shorts , and I yelp and say, “Don’t do that, Mr. Duker. Why’d you do that?”

Now it’s growing late and I’m yawning and saying, “Oh my fucking god. Mr. Duker was right. Love is a verb.”