As if there was all the time in the world

 As if there was all the time in the world
as if there were no lines to wait in
as if my mind with mud wasn’t filled
and about to explode or implode in

to itself that dream will never come true
to itself going round like no tomorrow
to itself moments end & never continue
to itself the world is filled with sorrow

I’m running backwards I see the past now
I’m seeing faces that have always been gone now
through tears that come hard and fast now
I’m seeing faces that are up there in heaven now

They’re looking down I know they’re smiling
They’re looking down and they forgive all
They hold me, they’re not controlling
They’ve seen worse but also the beautiful

The ancestors know that its all passed down
& the struggle for goodness and joy is here
& those who deny it are missing the sound
of a cosmic song ringing in this inner…

Ear…

Prayer

 Prayer

      I am
        me
    and no
        one
          else.

        I turned away
    to find myself
           from under
            all this rubble.

I had to go to
    find my shadow.

   I had to go to find my
brother and sister.

    I’m looking for my
        power.

    I’ve been space holding
   for so long, and
covering over and
        drifting wide.

    Not writing the 
letters of intent.
         Of regret.
            Of heaven sent.
            Of descent.
    Missing meanings.
        Short faces.

        Hold on together
     to this long wind
        of blessed air.
 
        Not in
                that
                           space…

Write it out...

    If I could write it out 
of my blood and bones
that would be perfect. 
Bit by bit, unspooled, 
withdrawn. Freed from. 
The left hand could take from 
the right. The mind 
could pull out from the heart. 
The little toe could 
become it’s own country. 
My eyes could see the view, 
the lay of the land, 
not as a map but as a maze 
and once again
I am lost in tomorrow. 
Empty sleepy dreamless.

            And who would know 
what she ever intended? 
What joy she had in being
there, in wanting 
something together.
In never wanting to leave. 
In some
infinite touch.

The Line and the Circle O/

/O

  from a Sonic Sandbox jam

 (click to 1:06:10)

The Line Goes and Goes
While the Circle Holds
-the philosophy/story below delineates some interesting factoids about a couple of geometric shapes which may or may not have something to do with our experience of time, death, love, holding, inside and outside.

D - trumpet
S - synthesizer
H - sax and philosophical story

D - (asking S about the synth)- What else you got in that box?
S - Circles and arrows.
D - Let’s hear the circles and arrows.
S - You just heard it.
D - What else?
S - Oh well… (looks down, starts twisting buttons..)
H - I’ve heard the world is made of circles and lines.
D (still talking to S) - Do you have zig zags? Do you have rectangles? Parallelograms? Do you have…
H - Have you ever thought about the idea that a circle is a line that comes back to itself? Right? In other words, there’s only two things in the world, circles and lines..
S - Well… That’s one way of looking at it. … Seems like an oversimplification… (shrugs) Who am I to say..
H - Lines can make geometric shapes. ..continuing with my theory. (takes off sax strap..)
Lines can make geometric shapes. In other words, geometric shapes and circles. (D starts on trumpet, S on synth…)
S - Not a circle but shapes ?
H - Yea, not a circle, its a geometric shape (?)
S - Well a circle is a geometric shape..
H- Right well i’m just curious and I’m thinking maybe I could split the world into two. 
S - You can always do that.
H - Circles and … everything else!
S - Ones and twos…
H - (Really focusing on developing the theory/story now…) A circle happens to be a line that happens to come back to itself.
For some reason, it can’t let go! It returns! (trumpet and synth are louder) 
It swoops around! 
It comes back, it can’t let go of itself! 
The line! 
The line could not let go of itself!
And became a circle.
S - a circle?
H - The circle could hold many things!
The circle could hold rain.
The circle could hold berries.
The circle could hold love.
The circle could hold pain.
The circle could hold need.
The circle holds!
The circle holds!
Whereas the line, the line escapes!
The line escapes into outer space!
The line is not holding on!
To itself any longer!
It’s let go of itself!
It will not be a circle!
It will never be a circle.
Once it launches off into outer space it never returns.
It goes straight off into infinity.
The line knows infinity!
The line knows infinity.
The circle knows HOLDING!
Maybe, you can’t have holding and infinity at the same time.
Maybe you just can’t have them both.
You can either have infinity, if you’re a line, or
if you go with holding on to yourself, holding on
to a self, round about, circling about and holding on
to itself,
you have finity..
You have alot of finity in that circle.
Alot of gooooood finity!
You got a lot of finity…
(strapping on the strap and then the horn)
You know what else, you’ve got an inside and an outside, with the circle. 
You’ve got an inside…
Does the line have an inside?
No. The line does not have an inside!
The line might have infinity but it has no inside.
It has no outside!
The line has no inside and it has no outside!
It goes and goes. It goes and goes…
and goes and goes and goes and goes
and goes and goes (starts playing sax…)

(30 secs later)
H - The line goes and goes… (plays another riff)
While the circle holds…
(another riff which keeps going with David and Steve..)
H - Now what happens if the line goes through the circle?
Right through the middle of the circle.
That sounds a little like sex of some sort..
I don’t know, sounds a little like . . magic.
Sounds a little like… hitting the target
sounds a little like … 
sounds a little like a punctuation mark.
right? you have a line you have a circle,
the line is going right for the circle.
its going to hit the circle
the line and the circle..
exclamation!
exclamation point!
its the point!
its the exclamation point!
(plays sax again, D plays the steel drums…)

Dada Manifesto

 This is a Dada Poem
    that has no meaning!
This is a dada manifesto
    that means nothing!
Blah! Blah! Blue! 
    Blink twice
and you’re here: blink
    thrice and I’m 
    
    here.
Blink four anonymous
    boring fart times
and we’re dead.
    Dead together.
In excruciating pain
    of loneliness,
    despair
and existential angst
    -iness.
Ho - hum.
Dada says goodbye.
Dada says see ya later
    alligator.
Dada says another day
    fly away.
Dada says
                

woopsee.
   

             bloopsee.

Somany somany somany

 The result of unknown years, just as well. Like somany somany others, a product of sheer imagination. He wished to know, but answers were elusive. Dreamed of going, but that was a different day. Automatically pushing, always pushing. Like the Year of the Boar, on steroids. And then there were none, why I don’t know. Answers on feathers, answers like songs. Songs without words, usually songs without words. Pure sensation, very consistent with transcendence in clouds. Or dripping, CHANGING EVERYTHING, not afraid of talking in groups. Expected to be cognizant of something, besides the wall of tears. I don’t know what happened, but I care immensely. Like an abyss I’m constantly falling into, and can’t get out of. Thoughts crowd round, don’t you wish we could go back to the beginning
AND DO IT ALL OVER
AGAIN?

Home Trauma

 Traumatized by HOME

I live in the fire of tomorrow.

What do I know that you

        Don’t?

    S  L  O  W
        
        M  I  N  D
    
    H  E  A  R  T 
    
        S  P  E  E  D

    hibernation

                welcome little Me

            to 2026.
    
    The first Me was swept 
overboard on the way over here.

There’s a before 2000 and
a beyond 42K.
        
Grandfather zapping me from
    beyond the grave,
    round about 1980,
thirty years after his death.
Did I help bring Father to
his promised land?
I was visited by Grandfather
right after Father passed on.
I could see his smile and
I wept.
Remember I am the one who
can cross over and return.

Someone jumped aboard my
traveling vessel there’s not
room for us both at all
times. Very harsh to be
speaking at all times to someone
who can not hear me. They
live in another city. Or
they are in the inbetween.

    Oh Lover don’t you know
how impossible it is for almost 
anyone to be blessing
everything in the home
at all times? I cursed
yes I cursed. I’m sorry
I cursed now that I’ve
seen the Flame. Felt the
spark. It’s as if I blew out
the candle too soon. The candle
of our love together. I blew
it out forever. You’d have to
light it yourself. And I can’t
yet imagine that happening.

    Mixing and matching.
    
Noon, high noon.
Will there be a shoot out
    today?
    Eyes like machine guns.
Thoughts like bombs.
I’d rather get lost in my
hibernation. And learn to
dream again. As leader
of little Me and the crew
of a ship to somewhere.

Dirt and the Eternal Flame

 Reconnect to the Eternal Flame

DREAM

He wants a kit for everything. For the ages.

Every time one moves
one leaves it all behind.

and so somehow
left to Father myself
little Huey
liar and fantasist
fantasist of trips
through a Hades…
Gone fishing in Hades…

Dream of finding the right teacher. A teacher.

A teacher of night.

Darkness       Darkness
and                and 
doubles.        doubles.

Aloneness
and paths
while carrying
3 rings of gold.
Each of my parents and
mine without J_____.

Boom not a movie anymore.

All the money is wasted of course.

No one believed it was
possible…   L  O  V  E     !

Emojis of steel.
    of oil.
    of dirt.
    unanswered.

DONE TWICE.

I know too much but not enough...

 You can’t know too much at any one moment can you? Exploding myths and mice swarms, scrambling mice, the gall, the underside but there isn’t one. Mothers know all, as a group, but the other mother knows more. Fathers therefore know nothing having left on the evening shuttle bus to the luxury hotel and casino. SPEND all of your money at once, roll the dice. The tension, without breath or poetry. And a star collapses somewhere nearby upon which the answer remains ‘NO!’ as always and other non-sequiturs such as frowns, instant giggles, reappraisals, juniper beads, no I mean berries, and drifting snake-oil salesmen who come for me en-mass, they look like real zombies, unkempt and ragged, desperate.

Disappear into the imagination to escape the un-real world. Injured warriors and children misplaced. I went back to a dreamless sleep and walked away unharmed. I didn’t forget about you, I hold you like a treasure in a vault, though I’ve thrown away the key. I’m hoping you’ll fly soon, first as a ghost going through walls, then as an angel with the Goddess’s ear, if she’s not too busy which she always is. Trying to save herself from the war between the sexes. That endless battle to redefine ‘Earthling’. And to find a new home, one without a target on the roof, or little notes put up here and there defining the amount of patience left remaining to spend in the universe.

round it...

 Bump it. Round it.
Sink it further than the dirty water
washing machines spew.
Found out, did she, about me?
I don’t think so but
what do I know about myself?
There’s fourteen threads of thought
feeling the web of entrails.
Echoing or mirroring
what someone else said
and how they said it.

Say Something

 No one says a word
and I don’t either. 
Ghostly but present
friends are always speaking
but what is the trombone?
The goldfish found it. Drink it
all day and all night. All night
and all evening. Stars twinkling,
city lights, a solitary street light.
The moon, a dog
howling.
Woo-ooo.

Awash

     Aaah for one cup of coffee.
To give or not to give?
    A flavor of nice with twenty
sandwiches of different varieties.
    Circles that don’t answer.
Love in-bounds is a dream.
    Something to say that is
more like the quiet of a pond
    with frogs and lily pads.
Oodles of emphasis on
    not knowing enough yet.

Stop back later

 when you step back or under
far side or plunder not
don’t see, blinded, a tree
a rock a fallout queen
a drift of snow…
how long how long
the long long time.
but no, not yet not dead
not dropped but held
held open like a belt
like a bolt and like a bingo
game, everyone is concentrating
following, flinging, 
there is hardly any saving
any savior, any time
left now…
the expanse goes on
and on…

Knocked on my heels

 Knocked on my heels
as if I had any,
my body as if I was
blessed by the friendships,
so long ago, and then
she eats fine when we sit
down together, I see my father
bowed down at the table,
gone south, my brother gone
west, and Kirk goes to
Africa, such travelers, because
there’s a home to come back to,
not an internet, not yet,
not til yesterday and so
today I’ve no body I’ve
decided, somewhat out of
rhythm and forever gonzoed
like falling over sideways
into the mess that
defies gravity, it rises
up as if a cloud into
all our nostrils, you can’t
escape it, the dust is
horrifically diverse, from
anywhere blown in by
those raging winds or even
the gentlest breeze this
dust is so light.

        It’s possible that if I
think of phallocentric I
    should remember I’m
        dust in the wind.

Animals (rant)

Hate and revenge? Difference, why? Meltdown compensation. 
And just because I don’t understand why, am I lost? 
Sailing away, on undercurrents, from Hades to Hades.
I gave away my innocence and then they took it. 

The chorus. The squabblers. I became a story. 
The story. The only story ever told is a complete lie. 
Youth. No budget for the whole truth. Arms and legs missing. 
An egg. And if I might be so bold as to assert that it was 

when I was a preteen that it came down, like the laws of Moses
that the everyday is political, like a hammer, like a gloved velvet hand 
that squeezes. Like in 1972 Vietnam came to Philly. I’m a Gulliver still
getting squeezed more and more, til my insides are out.

Invisible ink, I understand now! What is the theory of this? 
An anti-history, or possibly an absence of it all. The shocking truth
of how the Anarchists couldn’t agree with the Marxists 
at the First International, or when that Buddhist monk

was sitting so erect and he’s burning like a candle. 
And my acquaintance, Kathy Change, she did the same
over on Penn’s campus near that button statue next to 
the post-modern library, the one that has its back to the street.

If anything I’d like to understand modernism and/or
postmodernism in terms of proportion: pre-modern 33%, 
good old modernism 33%, and post-modernism 34%. 
So the scales are tipping! Ever so slightly! When, right now?

Or next week? AI can translate and then the last barrier 
to a singularity will be gone, I expect the apocalyptic slide
to become un-refusable, oh about July 2029. I predict one
of those dates popping up like 9/11: 7/28/29. 

Seven twenty eight twenty nine! If only I had a voice! 
No wait 7+2+8+2+9=28 so two+eight=10 which is 1, 
One 1 one 1 one!!! The singularity, oh no! 
Oh yes!

Death Star Mechanics

I am here. I can’t see with
my hands until I let go of eventual
death star mechanics. Crusty heads pin point
eyes over the land with fingers tapping
everywhere until never-the-less.
Letting go of eyes means feeling everything
finally. Dropping light
is impossible until I find
the right question. Squares are two mirrors.
Voices rounding off the fearful corners
I’m stuck in. Windows that won’t
open and things I can’t buy.
Noises. Dreams.


Note: when I got out of high school I traveled around that summer. I also saw Star Wars 5 times for some reason.

Nothing Inside All!

 

I.        Nothing inside all
        M A T T E R S !
        Not! Inside! All!
        mattering . . .
        this muttering . . .
        a little joke. drama.
    fortuitous inter splicing.
            Anti - carnivorous.
                Sudden houses.
            Steel underwear.
                Blinking
                in the new dark.
        Drivel guided tours
                on television.
            Without an accent.
        Before the end of string.
    Weapons of a million fingers
        simultaneously tapping.
    Headaches, muttering in
meadows under cliffs guarded
by gigantic insects with
sci-fi visions. …received a
pulse, about ten minutes long,
from the center of the earth.
            
II.            Earthlings!
            Earthlings!

    Code for life, understood.
        Stand on your head
        after eating nothing
        for twenty nine
        small minutes.

III.        I’ll have better luck 
with the nextone,
the nextone, 
the nextone. 
This one is 
burned out from the inside. 
It wasn’t a dream. It was the
lack of words at the proper
moment. Only the sound of ______.
    He never had a chance
in the center of the spiral . . . 
His third eye closed before it
could open. Scant days,
mostly nights. Breathe the
air, take air as a drug of
choice. Remember. You still
have a mother and a father.
Somewhere.

IV.     The holding. 
The all - in - one rock 
band with a singer
who remembered but then
forgot the words. They
muttered. The muttering
drove the bass player mad.
Mad with grief. A passing.
Enough mattering to fly.
A crow over the meadow
and into the city to a
certain counter-intuitive
tree. A tree, the wide
river, the oil tanks
oozing, the city and its
sirens. Three nods from
the executioner, who
scratches her temple
absentmindedly. “Never have
we known about this until
you told us,” intoned the
breeze sweetly in the ear
of a flashy beetle, who
had been around the world
twice. “I know you don’t
want to hear this,” goes
the beetle, “but there is
no more human sex. There
is no more feeling in those
moving parts of the planet earth.
Those walking, oozing, and
dripping parts.” Beetle:
“It’s gone, numbed out into
non-existence, no response any
longer. The brain is fried in those
spots. No pleasure anymore.
Sorry for you and all your
descendants! Good luck with
that!”
    Beetle goes on, while casually
munching on a third tasty
leaf: “Dream on, humans!”

    “Electric dreams
            from here on out!”

        and with a wry smile

    “Text me a selfie when
you get nowhere!”

Dissappearing Ink

     Dissapearing ink to write the longest word possible and then discovering the antidote to make the word veiwable to hyphenate any words together and thus create new meanings. Liberatory meanings. Distracting meanings. Nauseating meanings. So we all throw up together into one gigantic cookpot in the sky and the firestoms of climate change cook it all up -no wait, the fire-nados of climate change come together like in that Beatles song and we imagine that John Lennon was never shot dead and Yoko Ono's heart was never broken so,        and . . .      well, I won't go on . . . 

Little Hugh finds the RAGE!!?!

 Saturday 1/10 RAGE!!
-little Hugh finds the RAGE!!

Afraid to solo
but when I’m older than everyone else
    no one tells me shit
        i should know
and then its all over
    before its begun.

    Time doesn’t know
        about yesterday or tomorrow
    while dust gathers
            cars smash cars
    my parents live on and on
        thank Goddess!

How to rub shoulders?
    Ignoring the deeper truths.
        Studying life. Not anger.
            Rage ! ! !
                Not RAGE
                    Not RAGE
                        again!?

    What thoughts of freedom
are going through you, of
    life freedom!? Not
        death freedom!!
            Its all about being
        a Good boy, isn’t it?
    Deserve no spanking
            no incarceration
        no eviction
        no dry time
    dry out drunk.
It takes once-again-time
Once-again-time for any
    alcoholic they wish they
were a coffee-holic. (Still
a danger to themselves and others
but in a different area.)
        And no one wants
            to know not
        even Jesus Christ
            All-mighty the
                one
                and
                only
                savior
                of
                HELL.
        The savior of hell…

I wish someone else kept
    -my bank for me.
    -all lists for me.
    -all my dreams in a
        notebook I could read
        at my leisure when
        I get to heaven.
(and let it be known, my
    heaven is electro-acoustic.)
Digital hell mixup.
Analogue electro-acoustic
    nonsense heaven.

My suggestion:

Record each piece
    three times
    AND WITH a guest
            star.

thereby showing the 
        malleability.

        the draconian
                    malleability.

    And so you see, older Hugh,
there’s a target on your back. You
can go from the black dot to the
laser light red dot. I mean,
you’ll never actually SEE it,
    for real, the actual real glow
        of the laser light
            on your back
    
            (you are allowed to
                feel it
            just as Mama Earth
        feels the distant glow of Daughter 
Moon as she slides round
        her endlessly wide belly
    pulling tides and all glory!)

The laser red light of RAGE!
            In the night, RAGE!
            In the day, RAGE!
            All the money, RAGE!
            All the sorrows and
                    griefs in their arms,
                        RAGE!!

All the drippy dreams,
        the woo-woo wisdom
            of all the poets,
                    RAGE!

        Melting.
                The acid rain washing
                        Machine.

 Only the fighters
                    need comfort.