Mile Marker Zion

[the mingo]

I stone big meaning
against the dream
weird
rabid
and below the land ...

(in the end
the sailor
missed his chance
trying to remember)

[the mingo]

My introduction to education was sexed once and for all by my kindergarten teacher. Once and for all.

[the mingo]

I can't put into words how absolutely exquisite it is to wake up in the morning without having to begin the day in any kind of anxiety. I open my eyes in crazy surrender. I'm already there.

Embryonic highways
the holy kick ...

bones in the earth

the dead are beyond superstition

[stilltrucking]

there it is
I can't put it into words
either

but I think you come pretty close to doing so
this one needs a piece of mingo art (just my opinion)

embryonic highways

gracias

[the mingo]

One piece of mingo art coming up for ya, Jack.


Horse & Rider @ Coyote Mt.

and thanks.

[stilltrucking]

[the mingo]

6:08 a.m. - before dawn, I'm torn between heading over to Verona and looking at an Izuzu Trooper or heading into town and filing for bankruptcy. I suppose I will figure it out as the day goes along. I'm thinking I should also make a donation to Unity Acres seeing's how I have received a blessing of late. I think "first thought - best thought" might apply in this case.

I've looked but there has never been an elephant in my panamas. In fact I don't believe I have ever set a single toe anywhere ever in Central America. The two craziest places in the Republic of the United States are Oregon & Maine. Off the rural routes in both these places the white folks are busy about becoming a new kind of Native American.

No place like napalm in the pod bay doors - it's not the birds and the bees, it's the bees and the flowers.

It's a mingo morning - I'm dancing for my tribe.

Hey Hey Hey Hey

[mousey1]

Thanks, mnaz, it's good to be missed. Did you tame that wild koan, did you write it like a roan!

I like mingo's digs. You can dig in with your eyes and he always welcomes all to pull up a chair and sit and fritter a bit. Or at least he hasn't yet locked the forest door, so here we linger. No traps set! And oh the visuals.

[the mingo]

Sometimes ya just gotta do it. Bring up textbox & there it is. Naked. Waiting. Keyboard ready. Fingers hovering. A lady asking which way to go.

When someone loses someone I want to put my arms around them. I want everybody to let out with their music. I want everybody to let out with their dignity.

How come when you have four or five programs up & humming they don't run into each other? That minds my boggle.

Life is mad with going. With glowed. With writhings & logics.
I want to go everywhere and to everyone I meet point to my chest and say "Relax".

When something happens there is nothing more you can do like thinking or breathing. There are periods to be placed before the next word comes along.

[stilltrucking]

Ya never know where the next word is coming from.
I never do.

Just got that first word

first thought

sometimes an image kicks it off.



In the end.

It comes to this.

The Pity Of Punctuation

The Pity of Punctuation

Hoard of words released like manic
spring with its quick gush blooms of bright
where endings have not even a small chance
life forever resurrecting itself without the monster
splotch which when shrunken to depressed
the psychoanalyst calls the period
of realization and the patient hangs on
for her dear however listless
existence like a hyphen at the end
of its rope searching for its dropped
letters like I wait and hold my breath
for my letter that the male carrier might bring
with the possible swerve of love
before any wall of stiff brackets
and the unforgiving is embedded
into the type you know the type

where false hope lies in the dash and never forget

the pun how could one for therein
lived the fun when it was lost inside
me as my body and all punctuation
was temporarily erased eight years ago
same as the symbol of eternity
in April that whore month
with its hoard of all that is
possible while the sun slowly pitched itself
into the lake and he left and suddenly

too many commas crawled in carrying
colons with their screaming litanies of lists
and question marks with WHYWHYWHY
on their small hooked spineless backs
and the parade would not stop

until finally the period did roll in so bleak
and yet what a tiny thing it was
as I began to feel the fade into
the seamless midnight sky
with my being given
no choice but to curve onto that dot
and disappear with it

[the mingo]

Wow disappear blink*

I never hold the dawn accountable
for the day which follows it - it takes some living before you can distinguish beginnings from promises. If we could do this from birth there would never be a divorce anywhere in the land. Sleep is the waiting period between one beginning & another.

Sleep - where we all become the plaything of dreams.

[the mingo]

[stilltrucking]

Wireman's toad
made my day twice
first on thistles and marigolds now here on studio eight






I so much want to post that picture here

I been waiting hoping you would do it, would you mind if I did?

Down here in the Republic of Desire we are hammer down into spring.

[the mingo]

I hear that on the hammer, Jack. Go ahead and post away if ya want. I'd like Mark to see it for sure. Bombs Away!

[the mingo]

At this moment I have the high pitched whining roar of a vacuum cleaner coming in thru my ears and filling my brain. I won't be able to HEAR when she shuts it off. Electricity is sucking dirt. Right here right now.

Ode to a High Pitched Whining ROAR

O jungle up my ass
all the way to my rusted fenders
_______________________________

PackRat Cameeno just went by headed toward the transfer station with a truckload of old memories to shitcan. He'll come back by with his truck empty in a half hour or so headed back to his place for another load. PackRat never decides anything in a hurry but when he does finally make up his mind to do something he always does it all the way to the bone. I hired him one year to till up a patch of earth for a garden. Ten feet wide, 20 feet long. I never planted anything in it when he was done but I kept it weeded. The reason I never planted anything there was because that piece of tilled earth was a work of art the way PackRat did it. I couldn't bear the sacrilege involved in the planting of even a single seed there. PackRat never has asked me why I didn't plant anything there. The closest he ever gets to commenting is he'll ask me; "Hey, how's that garden comin'?" I just smile. I figure there is no sense in wasting his time or my breath over the mystery of it.