Mrs. Evans' Presbyterian Church Book Club

Languid, I tear the pin out of the grenade with my teeth
and throw it into Mrs. Evans' Presbyterian Church
Book Club, who voted just barely for a poet to appear.

A scientist, an evangelical preacher and a poet
were in an elevator. Which one is a liar?

"The poet!" screamed the Book Club.

Who will lead you to the future?

"The scientist!" screamed the Book Club.

And who has kissed the devil?

The Book Club halted, and all heads moved
this way and that in slow seizure mode,
as if they'd been struck dumb by a witch.

I have their tongues. Time to stick a key
into their hearts, turn it, unlock the door—
room full of every word they ever searched for.

I leave bread crumbs into the sky everywhere I go,
but a lot of people would rather starve than know
how I moved so fast and stole all their watches.

All three kissed the devil.

New Little Room In My Head

I found a new little room in my head,
right at the back, between brain stem
and skull, empty, never used.
Where I finally caught up to science,
and flowed so into the world I
am green, as I dream what is
into a story with a happy ending,
and I decided not to die.

The Two Of I

I am my own ghost, me,
creature to be feared,
on calamitous nights
foretold by those who
hate me most, a jerk
fireman who puts out
lies, first responder 
I might appear, or I,
smiling skull atop collars
big as plastic dog cones
might serve in my place
to scare everyone. Pop off
their cool and they weep
for me to let them be,
and maybe i will, but
maybe not. The terrified
make me laugh horribly
until they faint dead away.
Not there to understand
people, who bore me,
but i am, i think,
my ghost be damned,
which I am, but refuse
to go, choosing to be near
life, or anything close, my
gaping skull mouth grin
eager for anything not yet
dead, as if I was eating 
all our lives as flavors
I forgot I loved so much
and, of course, i a ghost
can dine on this forever,
and so can I, until I puke
on all the fear and lies,
coming from the smokestack
pipes inside most people.

Simple As Red Satin Garters

Rejection letter to Belousov,

who was experimenting in Russia with mathematics applied to functions and behavior in the biological world.

He was Russian.

The message said it's quite simply impossible


Scientists didn't discover chaos until the 1960s (Lorenz? Think butterfly wings)

(Nature is not a clockworks...not by any means)

Unpredictable results can happen with the simplest equations that should absolutely be correct.

And so formulas are an act of faith

By 2020, scientists are telling us that they found chaos must be an accepted fact of life.

And I wonder if anyone suspects what might work best in nature's insititutionalized chaos?

Magic.

Proven tens of thousands of years ago... if not by dolphins or hawks earlier today.

Because how else do you interrupt a feedback loop?!?!

You know, the endless circle drawn by the ancients on cave and cliff walls?!?

Or the Mandelbrot set equation: zn+1 = zn2 + c



And don't get me started abut gravity's effect on time, and how it stops in a blackhole....and yet it rinses out.....not by gravity.

Or, we could take Alan Turring and give him this choice by the British government, after cracking the Nazi code machine: "Prison or injection of female hormones?"

You can't make this stuff up. Or...

The rules are simple.

Etc.

Self-similarity.

Layer Bake

scientist astronaut priest engineer

poetry isn't magic....just more than 1's and 0's
 
a poet doesn't brake for bits
 
but in a tsunami of data
 
to break the laws of physics
 
information beyond the storage unit!
 
beyond the physical nature of reality!
 
as additional data flows in brief, new dimensions.
 
 experience is the stuff of archaeology now
 
what the scientists seek is what we are
 
somehow poetry is information + time...plus a million years...
 
and i haven't been to sleep for days

Nothing Is Nature's Default, So...

My rambling was promised
so the devil don't see me twice.

Rambling all promised, devil

won't see me no more.

Then, I got to LA. Was myself

for one day. Find the devil

right there somewhere

I was? Santa Monica Blvd.?

Dance floor, yes! Club Getty.

She had eyes of sky and sea,

moved like a watermocassin.

Eyes of sky and sea, lord,

just like a watermocassin.

Oh, and me, I see the future,

or a fraction of what's to happen,

a slow slipping mist thrown off

by a giant cloud and sight inside

not far from my forehead. Love.

And I'd tell her who I was, protect her

from a man who loves the road.

Tell her who I was, save her fast

from a man sworn down the road.

How she made each night, her way,

and gets me swirly, in a dream, hers,

and I got to say she was stronger

than whoever me whatever road.

But it wasn't her got me to leave.

can't wait until I'm gone, man,

find all the places wonder hides

the road waited till I'm gone, man,

all the holy places lie

Outrun the devil? Yes. Wondertrain

the road. This message made for you.

Just safer on the run. So much here

moves slow as a broken toy truck.

The fast don't need to speak.

3D

Childbirth

is first death,

all is lost,

as a new world

pries you into us,

angels of this afterlife.

Learn and trust.

Civilization is a 3D printjob

with every layer of it a lie.

Imagine better, sooner.