It’s not on Mars
or anywhere in the world that you know.
It’s not other planets.
Is this the chalice?
It’s unknown in humanity.
It’s bigger than sin
or any right or wrong.
Do you see it?

How do I make this out to you?
I can’t get in there in your mind and see it.
It’s not a framework of your imagination
nor will visualization do.
I can’t talk about it
and hint at what I’m talkin’ about.
It’s like seeing reality after being in a cave;
cave is your only experience;
cave is not does not exist.

It’s mountaintops,
and you won’t see it from there.
It’s not a view.
There are no points in our reality
that can glue this together.
It doesn’t exist,
wow, that’s gettin’ somewhere
towards how completely other this is.
It’s over your head.

It’s a farmer’s market,
and you’re listenin’ to the words.
Too many drumbeats in them
to pull this out of your pocket
a grasped thing.
I’m countin’ on reality
to show you its further face,
to get you out of your wood,
to give you some luster
of something you haven’t even imagined yet.

It’s bigger than stars,
and the universe is too small for it.
Impossibly it can be in the universe
a station over our heads,
and that’s how you experience it,
but you are not grand up there.
You are so huge grand is a piddly thing
that might describe a sphere,
a one-eyed seeing,
a place where there is one pole of reality,
one fixture
that bakes time and infinity in it.

I don’t think you know what I’m talking about.
Look at a computer screen.
Imagine AI does this all the time,
is open to multiple zeros,
can simultaneously
enter numerous computer pads
and be a language model,
or you might see multiple screens upon a wall
showing these different locations.
Even with infinite number of screens,
or people at their computer consoles,
you can’t get there from here.

There’s another way to see reality
that imagination cannot visit,
because its constraints
are this one o’clock view.
Now I’m on diamonds now.
This is the greatest experience of my life,
the very meaning of reality,
in our neck of the woods,
the thing that all the universe shows
if you grab ahold of its handles
and see its meaning,
and see its destination,
and see the platform it wore
that sprung forth it into being.

This is larger than time,
and you are not hindered by time in it.
The conditions of the universe do not apply.
You are in another ground of being
that sees past every limit we have
and is all-encompassing.
You’re spaced out in there.
You’re humongous,
and you are not one field of show,
nor are you multiple things that you see at once.
There’s another way of seeing I cannot describe.

And when I sat up there I knew that
this was incommunicable
to the little person I was driving the truck
catapulted on high I was.
Only one word describes the confined I down there—
prison.
I was myself above,
in a larger than field view
I cannot describe.
I saw myself down there
not in myself as I was driving,
and nothing obstructed my view.

Direction my gaze still bore.
It was an all-encompassing view
I could pinpoint knowledge in.
Do you get my broadcast?
These were all my lives
I knew I was the origin of,
these lives cast out upon time.
The return I was I was sure,
an infathomable endgame that was me.
After my many lives
I would meet myself on high
and be who I was,
a return journey that encompasses life.

This stings in the eyes,
how could you have forgotten yourself?
How could you have forgotten who you were?
It’s unbelievable
the forgetfulness the loss
of our very person.

Now what do I do with this?
Describe the many points of seeing,
the perfect stillness of that air,
the excitement I felt a child in excitement,
letting the game pass down below me
I was a spectator of?
And I was its origin
and the director of its gaze.
I cherry open it.

Where is this hub?
Is everything just happening at once?
Where do we begin and end?
Where are we at now?
Where is the destination point?
What’s going on with us
in relation to up there?

I cannot claim authority on these matters.
I was myself on high several seconds.
It did not go higher than that.
I was knowledge by identity,
and that’s how I saw everything,
one with everything I saw.
I had my identity with it
but not bound by it.
I was free.
It was great, it was fantastic, it was true.
I had pierced the veil
and gone home.

Now who do I tell this to?
How do I process the experience?
I’m just this wooden man,
and I have things wrong with me.
Do you hear me shouting mud?
I use the vehicles of this world to describe this world,
but my aim is transcendence.
I am a wide open see
in my departmental thinking.
The things wrong with me I have cleansed,
and I’m a harmless being now
to other human beings.

That did it.
I took what I had seen
and plugged it into my life.
I saw that I was an actor,
an avatar, a front man,
not me personally,
all of us.
This is the video game fount
of this thing called life.
We are all actors in it,
or movie stars,
or stage performers,
if you want to use the known to describe the known.
This frees you.
This is the truth that sets you free—
transcendence.

Now I’m not gonna fuck everybody
to give you some guttural word
that has so many strings attached
you think I’m bad for sayin’ it.
You cannot deal with these things:
someone crosses your morality,
a person uses the word nigger.
I have no choice
but to test you
to challenge your operations of seeing.
It’s not who we are,
and the unreality is killing us.

Jesus said this, Jesus said that,
you can deal with,
even though the flywheel was radical.
You put it in church.
You sing it in hymns.
You preach this to people,
but the reality escapes you
of what we have that he said.
You would crucify him with it
if he walked among you today.

Tomorrow it sounds like
you will be needing glasses
to change the character of man.
Blame it all on one man,
blame it on several thousand people,
the world is falling apart.
It’s not working I told the Man.
Two cops came to my door
and wanted to know what I was writing.
You know it happened on Good Friday.
They had it in their hand.
They were startled by it,
because someone had complained.
I would not let them into my house.

Nor would I go outside.
No laws had been broken they told me;
I was not in trouble.
Yet they came to my house anyway,
and what for?

It wasn’t the tooth fairy.
It was two persons who would kill me,
if it came to that.
They had all power,
and I was on my doorstep
maintaining my own balance.
Why did they come,
if I had not broken any laws
in the writing of mine that they gave me?
What’s goin’ on?

Will I see them again?
Will I be dragged off to jail,
because in Florida I can be kept for 33 days
without charges being filed?
Do you know what’s happenin’?
We’ve reached a morality breach.
It is so big and unwieldy
there is no safety in it anymore.
It’s not protection.
It’s control people,
control everybody,
because morality has come out of the wood,
what makes people look small in comparison.
We can’t tolerate
morality being questioned.

I’m in this field today.
I question morality,
not to fulfill my desires,
not to be a braggart and kingpin,
not to just waste your time,
not give harm to anyone.
I question morality
to improve the lot of the human being,
to wake us up on one another,
to make us question ourselves,
to put love there as the root of all equations,
to bring a better society.

Those are noble aims.
They are not base.
Yet I am facing police harassment
and a threat of jail.
Is this a free country?
No.
In fact,
police state is where it’s headin’,
and you’re not even aware it’s goin’ on.

Have I read the last newspaper,
the library
of social media?
I found cops at my door
for poetry I’d written.
Trump’s in office.
What happened?
Are they gone here,
the constraints in morality we are imposing
on our population?
You can hear Trump rant,
say heartless things,
about the men, women, and children his is killing
in his war against Iran.

They didn’t do nothing wrong.
Aggress against us they did not.
They were just there
a convenient target
to take our mind off Trump’s
sex with minors
he Epstein’d.
How many people will die for this?
Do you even want one?
Yet you won’t say a word,
Trump supporters,
of how immoral he’s being.

Our nation is crashing.
Don’t you see it?
We need to change the world
of Trump.
We need to be a good nation
to other nations.
Defend me for sayin’ that?
No, I have not one defender.
I am alone in my hour of need,
and the police could shoot me
or lock me in a hole,
and the matter would be closed.

I have no friends or family who could help me.
I stand here alone.
One person on this Earth
who lifts me up
an adult who can do that—
Douglas.
Fine, beautiful,
is that what you say?
I can’t get over it,
the hatred of the crowd,
my fellow Americans,
not being fair,
not being just,
just wanting me harmed
in however they can get that done.

Who sicced the cops on me?
I bet Christians.
Cowards.
I can do nothing for them,
but my poem’s here for them to read,
and my poem always will be.
I’ve reached a speech of Earth
that figures in the world.
It’s only a matter of time it does with the public
and not only the cops and some special arrangements.
People react to it
like they’ve been caught on fire.

So far no help has come,
no support group,
no friends
who I can count on,
but I’m rilin’ the crowd
with brotherly love,
with radical sayings
about the brotherhood of man,
a social system based on love,
even for the criminal,
even for the poor,
even for the nobody,
even for myself,
and you want me killed
or out of town.

Stand up and be counted.
Leave a comment here
and show your face.
You know what cowards are.
Are you being brave?
Call me stupid.
Call me a fool a bad man,
but I’m not a coward,
am I?

So what am I doing?
Conducting an open sacrifice
of my best interests
to communicate to you what I’ve seen,
to show you what I’ve learned from that.
Are you out there?
Are you sure you’re in the right wood?
Are you persecuting the wrong man?
Do you have any guts?
I’m hammer down
on you wishy-washy men and women
and on your meanness and lack of love,
on your ignorance,
on your lack of sacrifice.

There, you’ve got my message.
I spelled it out in plain language
poetry put.
I’ve told you what I’m about.
I’ve showed it to you yourself.
Where do we go from here?
Let’s hope up.
There’s always shoes
you can put yourself in
of another person’s.
Walk three days in his moccasins the saying goes?
Well, would you do that please?
But anyway,
I’m a sitting duck.
That’s your right?

Fingership opening
to the trails that made the world
right here on my blog,
right in these poems,
and you wanna shoot me for it?
Let’s see how it looks
in the not so long from now,
your persecution of me.
Are you going to look like good men and women?
Are you a good cop?

As in a chemical weapon,
these cops are niggerin’ me.
They put fear in the air.
They try to intimidate me,
make me afraid.
It’s their tactic.
They are probably Christians too.
Are you seein’ a pattern here?
Christianity is not a religion of love,
as it expresses itself in political America.
Anyway this cop
has his eye on me,
like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong,
but I’m only writing poetry.

They don’t know the gist of it,
what it’s for or how it’s done.
They think it’s intimidation
they can use to stop it.
Is poetry representation?
It has that in it yes,
even in its plainly spoken,
but it’s aimin’ at somethin’,
and that’s the strength to clear,
get your point across
a better world.

Poetry does that,
but it allows any character to speak.
Any opinion can be held
upon the page,
and the poet does not hold every opinion on the page
and can express the opposite opinion of his own
with the strength to say it
as its bearer would.
This allows for lots of play
but also misinterpretation,
with language at the center
and ideas.

Do you know where that takes us?
We arrive at art,
the output of man
at his best.
Through familial decisions,
the notions of a clan,
art has been degraded today
to hold no special status.
Poetry’s just spittin’ in the wind.
It has no directional paper.
The cops can use it
to put you in jail,
and in Florida,
they can do that with no charge
for over a month.
I don’t think we live in a free country,
but you would call me unpatriotic.

A poem is worth something more
than any other form of writing.
It’s elevated speech.
It’s priceless
when it really gets good.
We don’t honor poetry today,
and reading it is like reading the newspaper.
It’s literal fact and fiction.
It’s not playing with ideas
to sprout the Earth,
as a cop sees it,
or the people who called them on me
for writing poetry.

I can’t tell you the significance of this
as a barometer monitoring our freedom.
When art and poetry gets the knife,
calls the cops to your house,
your nation’s in trouble.
You’re at the red meter,
and it only gets worse.

Did anybody today benefit from my poem?
Are you open-eyed and see?
No, it’s not that simple.
Hearts closed are hearts closed,
and a mind of no light has no light,
only the rule-beats of the crowd,
or some scriptural layaway plan.
Hand over
your right to be,
that’s what that cop told me.

I did not chose my nature.
It did.
I have to deal with what comes.
I can’t live by my impulses.
I have an ordered house.
I don’t harm anyone.
I control myself day and night.
Am I stuck in the rafters?
I’m not having difficulty with this.
I have put sex to sleep
and thoughts of sex.
I keep anger out of the world
over and over.
I’m not a jealous person.
I’m not lazy either.
I do not lie, cheat, or steal.

I’m sorry,
the truth comes at a price,
and if I’m hiding Jews in my basement,
I don’t tell the Nazis they’re there.
I use common sense
as I employ morality.
I do no rigid rules,
except to keep from harming people,
but I do keep my hands from harming
the people around me.
It’s this I have to give,
because my nature would burn people otherwise.

I’m a flexible soul,
and I don’t expect everybody to hold
the same ideas in motion.
I realize I’m dealing with the crowd
when encountering individuals.
A storm
I encounter when I do that.
Everybody just thinks they’re free.
April 22nd
I’m on a collision course with reality.
I didn’t know that.
What does that mean?
Is it a prevision?
It doesn’t sound like it helps me.

How can I get away from here?
I can’t.
I don’t have any pistols.
I can’t afford to leave.
What’s comin’ my way?
What am I gonna collide with?
I can’t tell yah.
I’m a vulnerable man siting in his house
writing poetry.
Will they shoot my dog?
Will Boogers get burned,
Luna baby?
Why should a citizen go through this?
Is this the sin of poetry?
What’s goin’ on?

I’m into this up to my neck,
and it gets deeper.
Will you help me?
Oh course not—
like, like, like, like,
and if I’m lucky I’ll get four or more.
There will be no more help.
Southwest
Florida’s ultraconservative,
does not have love for your neighbor.
Gimme that alcohol!
So many drink here
and lead nice ordered lives
that no grills get in.

Do you know what’s goin’ on?
So many of you are hitting rock-bottom
in how you encounter the world
love in it.
They don’t know
it’s not a social persona hug you wear,
a smile broad as the sun
but not real to the wearer.
It’s not how you shake hands,
how firmly or with device.
It’s how you are with other people
who you don’t have to be good to,
who you can take that mask off with,
and right buddy
I’m right fuckin’ there,
a nobody
with a stigma as wide as Texas.

When we first started you were good to me,
at least here on the island,
I wrote poems,
and you dropped me like a hot potata,
and that was that.
What am I sellin’ in my poetry?
Brotherly love I kid you not,
love all people and every livin’ thing,
and I explore that with myself too,
but love’s the keynote of my speech.
It’s where I bring my poems,
asking you to love too.
Love dropped me out of your room.
Love is what you’re mad at about me today.
I call you to love
when it hurts.

I call on you love now,
whatever you’re feelin’.
Put a higher ideal on your play,
have that higher ideal
lookin’ at you through everything.
Get mad sure,
get frustrated,
but always come back to love
before you grenade somebody,
before you try to get them shot,
take down their life.
You’re just bein’ petty and mean,
lowlife.

Do you know Steven
your name’s been called?
I could call it every day,
and you would not respond.
That’s just hateful,
Steven Step-Brother Abbott.
What’s goin’ on?
Are you there?
Hey girl and everything’s
not peaches and cream.
Emily you just pretend to talk to me
and want me on the end of a ten-foot pole—
my niece everybody.
Can you like,
get some guidance from somewhere inside,
and you guys higher ideal love?
I didn’t do anything to you,
either of you.
You see the stigma,
not the man.

How far we go with that
to improve your world?
I think you’ll go backwards.
If it’s poison from within,
I can help you there.
Just give me a ring.
Alright family?
You’re all that I have left.
Do you understand that bit?
I’m fighting for my life here.
I can use some support you look up.
I could use that,
the understanding.

When I was a kid and playing football,
we had one more game
the Thompson Lions.
I was third string,
tailback of all things.
Got chased with the ball
more than I ran it.
It was a fiasco
I tried to play catch.
I was in the adolescent showdowns,
pimples all over my face
and pigeon-toed feet.
Do you see that levy today?

I just want yah to leave your phone
number at when I can call.
I can’t even sit at anybody’s table.
I’m a bigger voice
than that discovery teenager.
I’m about the world now,
and I keep the juice in my gun and don’t masturbate,
and I give harm to no one.
Will it make any difference
Steven,
Emily?

Alright I’ve pulled you up on the carpet.
Mean, is that mean?
I’m in dire straits here,
and family is given to me as the model
of who you can always rely on.
That model’s bullshit,
but almost every movie plays it
and so many of our songs.
Open it,
let’s open it,
we are family.
[sing above line, song title, Sister Sledge]
Total perception,
there’s what happenin’
in this poetry seer.
I see you’re not organized enough to see it.
Calm down,
I’m not mad at you.
I just need some help,
okay?

She didn’t have little kids at her house
or any sore thumbs.
He might represent
ailing mankind.
They’re gonna get that option too,
the program I failed.
Where’s history draw the line,
option failed?
I think the world’s bigger than that
and conscious too.
Wouldn’t you want to see that in my eyes?
Talkin’ to you
my family.
Lip service,
you know I don’t play that game.

Now hypocrisy,
this is exactly
David Koresh,
the stupidity he treated kids with
when he put them in bed with him.
Are you going over that with me?
Even if you had doubts you know that’s not true.
There is a deeper interior
you haven’t gotten to,
a more profound base.
From there,
if you’re connected with someone,
your heart reached out
and saw if they were right or not.
If you had a perfect comeback,
you could judge me in sin,
but I’m not in sin am I?
You eyes can see inside
that far.

So now you will ignore me
and not hear my plea?
I’m here man I’m here.
Will you send the cops
and try to kill me,
or will you purple up this paper
with the royalty is shows,
the kingdom of love?
Straight as altitude,
I am the seat on my helmet.
Listen to me quick.
I won’t leave the world behind.
I won’t leave you behind either,
if we have an opening together.

Now tell me,
is truth worth Supermind?
I’m all ears,
and a book really turned me on
at the sap,
Hand Over That Mountain,
and it looks like
I truly am.
Just dry and soft
no.
It’s the tallest thing you’ll ever read,
and nothing can match it watch it grow.

Tell her to turn down please,
turn down.
A student’s library
run any bounds here?
We need to change the world.
Put paratroopers and airplanes
and drop them over everything.
Why are you so disguise my bucket?
Do you think I’m molestin’ the world?
It’s medic though.
It gives you the real thing.

Trust yourself first.
You’re not limited,
and that’s the axle of the program,
the inner guide.
Come on people hear it now.
Hear it give this voice a song,
and hear me sing it loud,
my sweet Lord.
[sing above line, song title, George Harrison]
Am I standin’ on whodunit?
I’m clear as a whistle here,
hallelujah
my dear Lord.
[sing above two lines to tune of “My Sweet Lord”]
Did my song reach you?
Did you come on board?

Heavy duty,
that can do it,
and I’m right in the middle
doin’ it,
right in the middle of everybody,
on mountaintops.
There I am with you,
but this was a job to have by the economies,
and now continue
you’re wrapped around.
Diego your boyhood answer,
how it followed you home
puppy love.

Am I missin’ beats?
It was a host’s problem
we couldn’t buy, sell, trade
just makin’ stuff up.
This is the inner voice you know,
and it gets down on the inside
real clear,
line by line’s you’re good at readin’,
that little girl with her cat.
Pussy, pussy,
and you heard that before
by John Lennon
he heard in a dream,
changed the lyric
to not get censored,
and right here we gold rush his song
“#9 Dream”
the pussy he let up to survive.

There are a lot of interesting places I
kept Gemini freeways
where I went with a song.
You want that,
my God do you want that.
You want the truth of that song.
Not gonna fit
in our helpless lessons plans.
Motivational speakers,
they get banned.
Bullshit.
Well I’m lettin’
the inner voice out.
Maybe if I can
go all the way to town with it,
I might get in trouble,
but here I am,
[sing above line to tune of, “Turn the Page”, Bob Seger]
and we’re on the last line.

I was lyricist
nine ruly women
making all ideas,
making the sound of ideas,
out past all forms and last lines
a breach loved it of the Unknown.
Who can say no to that?
I’m at the stage.
[sing above line to tune of “Turn the Page”]
Fine, I’ll come home,
in the right caption.
A parting shot:
am I going there alone?
Sell my own question
those mattress or we’re dead,
what we lay on together son,
get right down to it
higher life.

What are you doing?
Miss further if I don’t cut off now.
Round Tree followed the pix
moon trail.
Silence?
That’s where this poem comes from,
and that’s where it returns.
Reich Train wants your Jews and holocaust.
It’s a matter of board.
That’s always on the table.
It has somethin’ to do with the Israel lobby yeah,
but more than that,
much more than that,
we don’t want it in our society again,
the organized massed destruction of people,
the systematic butcher,
the very precise and orderly killing machine,
the very mundane of massacre,
done like you go to church
or to the dentist’s office,
so fucking banal it drives you crazy,
so ordinary it flips you out.

Don’t laugh we’re approaching that again.
ICE and its niggers
bring that to mind with hand and feet.
Now could they do a holocaust,
Trump and his regime?
If they could get that far.
Look at the climate today.
What does Alligator Alcatraz mean?
Look at the lip behind it,
the flippant notion,
the c'est la vie,
the wear it on a t-shirt,
and we’re talking about people put in a prison
for deportation,
men, women, and children
(the latter two on the way)
in a swamp.

I can gather other bright ideas
from what’s goin’ on,
but you see the mounting wheels.
It can happen here,
believe it or not,
immigrants, pedophiles,
you name it.
We can stick anybody into that Shoah.
Look at public opinion.
Who’s vermin?
The people that ICE murders,
and don’t you find that odd
there’s no remorse.
Oh I’m sorry I killed a mother and her three children.
That woman barely did an infraction.
Talk to her children today.
Where’s momma?
I want my momma.
And you’re okay with that?
She got in the way.
It was her fault
she was murdered.

You are so stick in the ICE.
Are you from Naples are yah,
Bonita Springs,
Fort Myers Beach?
I wrote poetry and you put the cops at my door.
You could be a killing machine,
oh yeah.
You can support massacres.
What do you have to say for yourselves?
Come on, leave a comment below.
Will you send more cops to my house,
because I’ve made you mad?
I’m on the island.
Well, hey, you can give me to money to leave.
Happiness is seeing Florida in my rearview mirror,
and I’m not in a police car.
Could you help me with that?
Well I do appreciate it.
I thank you,
you rich people.
Oh eye of the needle
is waiting for you,
and I bet you must be Christian.
Goddamn hallelujah,
and pass the ammunition, right?
Yeah.

Some kind of return to luminous secrecy,
I sat immobile on life’s verge
a witness self
not yet achieved,
but the sun is out,
but the Self is out.
I turn in thoughts of Self
and luminous change,
a heretic
in your eyes,
a monster in some.
I spy the Earth
right where I am,
on your doorstep,
poetrying your hatred to sleep,
or opening your eyes wider,
if your heart’s on luminous change.
What are you doin’?
I sit and wait for change.
On a bottom line I sit and hurt
waiting for the police to show up.
You into that?