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Pure Love Give Away

Pure Love Give Away

We can no longer
sustain this gambol
It has burned through

Our Pure Love stores–such as they are–
we now offer for free
Our Pure Love stocks, bonds, and futures–come what may–
we toss like candy from fire trucks on Main Street in the clear sunlight of a July 4th parade

Pure Love for free
Pure Love for free
Insofar as we can

Dear God
Where’s this Pure Love
that would transform us?
We can’t remember anything
except catechisms and formulas
the gray windy dropletting fog day
neverminded all our ambitions
We were in the wrong?
Outside the heart?
Beyond the mind?
Forgetful of the center?

If Pure Love could overtake
could win could guide could show the way
What would that feel like?

I used to wander along the edges of a tidal pool salty cool lapping through granite smoothed round but still sandpapery. The shaggy brown star-fingered poppy-sac seaweed swooshed in and out with the tumbling water as it filled a little depression and then retreated, leaving just a wet curvature, then returned and once again overtook. I used to wander along the edges where the sun traced every stone, every sparklesand, the dark bluegreen water and the tips that glinted the light. Now I wait for salvation, exiled by something wrong within a poem we tried to write. We’d wanted a way out. Out of everything except the gentle edge of a gentle beach beside a gentle sea; and some kind of violent grownup love. Which longing was the more selfish? Which input the more disastrous? To hold forever to the quiet safety of a a childhood moment long before you’re called back into the blanket, spraydown, walk-in-small-barefeet along the hot sand, over the low, white, rough concrete boundary wall, onto the hot blackfadetogray pebbly parking lot, and upon a damp towel in the hot-and-sticky plastic-and-vinyl car? Or to wail desperate-dog for a corresponding shape that would somehow touch right through to heart/mind?

It doesn’t matter. For a hundred years we’ll now ride the ridges, in the high thin mountain air, our long-legged Landstriders tossing themselves and their small helpless riders through the purpley blue splashed on one side with reddening yellow, on the other with bleeding black, and swirled all through with puffy curdling strafing white. It doesn’t matter. We’re tired again; tired like children falling asleep against a hot sharp tight-weave polyester seatbelt and into a sticky blue, diner-vinyl seatback, our exhausted, sun-enriched little hands instinctively sliding away from the superheated metal buckle. Yes, we’re tired; we’ll let the monsters have their say while we slip away. Does that make us monsters too? And are we even allowed a return to innocence, into sleeping dead away like a fallen tree?

Our Pure Love factories, mills, farms, forests, fisheries, wells, and the like: all abandoned. The pitter patter of Pure Love marketers, brandsters, production and logistics managers: all turned to sudden dust and swept up and away by a lightly cycloning breeze. The Pure Love we leave behind, free for the taking. If, that is to say, we managed to build, grow, harvest, or mine any. Ah well, let it ride, let us ride into the cool collapsing day. We weren’t able to figure it out; couldn’t make sense of it; could find no good response to this thing called life. And so we leave, not life, but the living; not friendship, but the fray; not love, but purpose; for purpose we have none, nor can we get one, given what we’ve become, tiny puppets vaguely representing mythical children’s tales, fleeing the scene on the backs of long-legged, round torsoed, giant-eared steeds from a movie we half-recall from a world that must’ve somehow been though now it clearly isn’t.

Will looters come for the Pure Love?
No point. It goes everywhere and nowhere of Its own flawless accord.
Will hoarders fill their basements with It? Stack It around their bed, into the hallway, kitchen, dining room, living room, leaving only a narrow bath from bed to fridge to toilet to door?
Again: no point: It is already in all those places and more.

Farewell mighty halls of industry.
Farewell clacking typewriters, and clanking presses.
Farewell grand champagne speeches overlooking well-groomed smiles draped in black tuxes, exquisite rolling-flowing dresses, plush red carpet,

And so they disappeared, BW & AW, they quit the scene; you can’t sell Pure Love; no one can, not even the elastically spinning Bartleby Willard of the explosively poignant Wandering Albatross Press.

Author: BW
Editor: AMW

Next Steps: Now that we’ve agreed on the undoubtable values

Next Steps: Now that we’ve agreed on the undoubtable values

We agreed that any pattern of thought and action that refuses to ever sacrifice universal values like awareness, clarity, honesty, accuracy, competence, kindness, shared joy, and equality within the Love; we agreed that any such sacrifice would steer human thought/feeling/actions into places that were not meaningful, interesting, understandable, or standable to human beings.

We agreed that corruption is a mistake and that it is the state of affairs in which impulses not guided by the universal values rule the moment, and that corruption can overtake an individual human being or a group of human beings, and that corruption–like all human things–is a thing of degree.

After that I don’t know: did we agree on anything more?

I guess we didn’t, because you sided with what I think is cruel and stupid.

So what now?

I’m asking you, because I can’t figure this out all alone.

Give me a real philosophy

Give me a real philosophy

Give me a real philosophy
Give me a philosophy that actually fucking helps
Give me a philosophy that helps
I’m sick of these ideas that twist and turn like leaves in the sunny wind.
What the use are they?
Where’s the philosophy that helps me to live for real?
Where’s the philosophy that helps my country stop falling apart?
Where’s the philosophy that knows how to help us all?
Where’s the philosophy that tells the Truth until Goodness reins?
I don’t see it; I don’t find it; I don’t hear it.
I just don’t.

There’s Nothing Left But Work

There’s Nothing Left But Work

The choices all made by you and not you
And Fate fat old self-satisfied horn beast,
A dragon twisting in mad whooshing flight–
Her little say also swirled in the tea.

So whatchya gonna do? It’s up to you.
You flee the scene? thin blue line winds you down
up into tidy red-shine ribbon bow
I’m sorry: you’re the scene now, my dear.

Take it or leave it; remember only please:
leave it and laughter drops always thud dead
from knowing it’s a lie

There’s nothing left but to work, nothing left
but throw your shoulder through the bulwark brace.

Brute force won’t rescue the princess, won’t save
your soul, won’t change the tide, won’t help anyone.

How can I bury myself in my work when misdirected work is worse than worthless?
How can I bury myself in work when work needs insight to work and I’m just
some fool who wanted to bury himself in mindless work
and in that way beat the beat that can’t be beat?

Giving Up

Giving Up

So giving up anyway
done I quit I can’t
now you know
too much

I walk the edges and bound the lines
It carries the weight, it pulls the tide
I move the cartons, I squish the jugs
It carries the time, it swings us wide
Now I care not for this mistake which I cannot
whatever it was
whoever did it
wherever it took place
however its burrowed down deep
to where I cannot reach but cannot escape

Who’s fault?
Privileged asshole
Everyone thinks they have it rough
Twenty-five years of walking around talking about how you can’t take it anymore
A long time to talk to yourself, lonely and bored, unsure of your footsteps.
Twenty-five years of trying to find someone to talk to
when you won’t play the game
not because you’re too good for it
not because you’ve got principals
not because you can’t make out the rules
not because you don’t believe in the parameters
just because you can’t
you can’t do it
you just can’t do it
you have to go home
wherever you are
whatever you’re doing
whoever you’re with
need to go home
a place that isn’t
a nest not there

In the wrong for all your self-indulgence
Wasting time, wasting everything, letting everything fall apart
can’t help yourself, can’t help others, can’t help the collective, can’t help but drink two beers with gross thai food two days after having sworn off alcohol for the next three months

Giving up
I quit
For so many years talking of, fantasizing of, dreaming of quitting
sometimes you come close
but it’s never like you wished when you were young and eager,
when you wished you could lie your head on her stomach and melt away with her
And of course
well that
Everyone has there little ups and downs

Making things better

Making things better

If I could I surely would
Stand on the rock where Moses stood
If I could I surely would
Stand with the Light, with the True Good

But I’m just a toy, just a boy
Lost in the folds of some lumpy lap
I’m just a fart, a nowhere part
Caught in the cold, taking a crap

Make things better
Help out
Say what helps
Do what helps
Be what helps
Live joyfully

Gregory and my Concern

Gregory and my Concern

Gregory and my concern
Gregory and the worm
Gregory and the sun
Gregory and the days
now spent
Gregory father of many
Gregory believer in the Trinity

I’m concerned.
All these years without a mark, without a weight, free to drift in and out, aware but not, there but naw.

I’m worried.
I don’t know how to help.
I’m 41 and I don’t know how to help.
You’re 40 and I’m 41 and I keep my lead in time but wisdom ah wisdom well wisdom not so much

This is closing in on us
We can’t win this one
Our only hope is that we’re on the bench

I don’t understand
what has happened
how we went from the scraggled-brush near the sandy desert floor to this
and where our shared grandparents have gone to
and what we owe the living

I’m worried
but I’m still drinking

What should I do?

A Nation Embarrassed

A Nation Embarrassed

It’s so embarrassing
I’m so embarrassed
We’re so embarrassed
Here we are, with TV and free-time
and still can’t think what to do
Here we are, with jobs and drinks
and still can’t think how to live
Here we are, full of work and pleasure
and still don’t know how love grows
how it becomes an order, a path, a rigor, a story, a people, a senate a congress, a people a way forward.

It’s so embarrassing
We’re all so ashamed
All this time moving around
talking laughing sparkling
And yet we really don’t know how to stop
the monster
We just don’t

God would help
God would love to help
God is all about helping
God wants to help
God can’t help because we can’t hear
I don’t hear anything
I only hear myself and I’ve got nothin’

Oh dear oh dear oh dear
oh dear oh dear oh dear

I fear we’re gonna blow our hand.
How to come together and help one another?
How to come together and choose a Beautiful Order?

Chaos is
Chaos is always ugly

But order
that can go either way
So how

What does it take to actually make things better?

What does it take to actually make things better?

I wanna know
I wanna grow
I wanna live
I wanna have it all:
happiness and decency
funfulness and helpfulness

I wanna girl
I wanna be a boy
I canna even say
what I wanna say

This is the drunk
who should’ve grown up
who should’ve could’ve would’ved

This is the skunk
who should’ve shown up
who would’ve but didn’t

What does it take to actually live OK?
What does it take to stop fucking around and start feeling the air on your flesh, the light in your eyes, the souls on your heart?

Mark’s Yard Sonnet

Mark’s Yard Sonnet

Remember neighbor’s yards: sharp overgrown
All jut and jab through chainlink gray-glint fence;
Or placid matted greens and dust-brown tones—
Belike your own, old Mark—whose shag basement
Did spill upon white clean square concrete slab,
Whose pebbly-crumbling drive’s end now escapes
My sun-on-smog reconstruct photo-lab.
A shed? Garage? Empty weedcrossed estate?
The magnet debacle, clear summer sun.
Cops, Robbers; Cowboys, Indians; days on the run.


[Bartleby’s Poetry Corner]