Demotic Incalibri

Humane reliques of the earth’s sovereign past. What hear you of these things in the modern theatre? Are the children as bereft of honest charge as the carbon copies? Will the exhumed gold and silver ever get back to rocking and rolling in the turn of the soya count. Dwindling remnant of bones. The contained. The remittent to the even flow of things being tied.

An inhibition to say 💭 things vulgar or not competent in the rhetorical schools foundling. A certain distaff of effective trepidation. How the long going frequency of knits and assuages makes out in the meticulous banter of birds. A gathering coming to the North and its dawn. Fastidious displays of leadership and non sequitur. Each indelible peace in the histories of a nation getting up off of its knees. To embrace the weak forces of nature and say 💭 that Mother belongs on the main. Giving respite to those whose call 📱 goes not unheard.

Commingling in the effervescence of ryman tropes and current metaphors. All glad the ship 🚢 is not sinking. All bayofully at scratch with their devils. Making way in the trades of the music. A grand and verbal contentment in the acclaim amongst the tables of roundabout friends. Each good fellow and glam doll rolling on the crest of the waves that beat on the shore outside.

A Summer house not much fit for Winter’s pasturing. Often the nearest occupant is a dusty ghost. Making out his day on the back of a couch. Meals, rest, and entertainment. Each portion of the day boiling up together into a fust of appetites. Those favorable memories in the mindful exchange of greetings between passerbys.

The quarry of asides deems hesitation break for the wing out upon the tarmac. Its green Sunshine refledged in each clover found to bear its four lucky leaves. A pile of salient drawn salts. The digs of a roving mendicant. Making out garret and grot to the season and the clement weather’s train. An obfuscate and trembling now couched citizen. Gregariously close to the vanity of the lady in her arts. She does not wish to sing alone. An entire choir of the angels making progress out upon the waves. Headed for that furthest ignoble shore. With seed and stamina the new land meets expectations and the olden horn is blown to remember those whose tread fell before this shift of carbon.

This sign of the spiritual throw. With the momentum of a loose flying goose the beautiful and the emblazoned in a rapping flag comes down to a mire of resorts and treats. Withal the blessed pension of a midlander keeping a verbal sentiment in time. For the wait is a look back over one’s shoulder and a barrier with out needing diverse concomitant to hold the hand of the cantor. If we can simply release the bear from the trap. If it were no emboldened goof that limited the exclusion into subsequent divestures. And so the glade is made glad in renewed wander through the dance. Stages in the phases and character roles of a tramping and well spoken crewe.

Fellow friends in an accustomed gate. The North end of the city proper. Where the organic food trucks come into the market space on the square. Near the warehouse that have been refurbished into living lofts and organized corpus of indemnity and the good book 📗 to crow by.

A better dursted landsman into his continence and sharing withal. Concurring streams in the operators style. A realization of a gone 🏠 despondancy in the rising Sun. With bluebirds singing of their happiest schtick about the shrubs and groves that turn from garden to plot. A liberty to wear a new t-shirt and turn the old one into a rag. The best handle on the jug keeps a cork in it. And the olde hound forgets the bitterness of her more frugal appetites. Lets on that she is no more a chaser of rabbits and their tails. Now she wanders behind the child to see him his way down to the schoolyard where the child will bid her take her leave and go. A saunter and a saserdotal memory for the each of them to go by.

Simpleton Seeking Rhyme 1994/10/26

One and the same and I think of this often. One less nail in the coffin. Got to wonder what cloths he’s doffin’. These clues are out leagueing in the rain. I feel a bit certain it has brought me a deep seated pain. As if I have run the full gamut of my grain. The coursers on the track with a haughty swain. Once labeled legally insane. My how I asked to complain. If only creatively I were afforded substance and did gain. Then I could give a jingle the jangle and let it, let it lap at the harmonious in a fell dispensation of the rains. But I won’t be out there in that maelstrom messaging around in my bi-plane. I’ll be quaffing root beer and chucking pizza inside, in a corner, content, and without want to wane. Never die in bed for want of a tongue to give meaning to a blood red stain. It is something I find as primitive as my want to be found in a name. So no more dropping a shift by taking something lame. For I have found it is a no good old hilarious game. Though it dies early it is not forgotten for being tame.

This good gal I have got has on the goods with her raiment. Mister Bobby really just saps like hoopla about making the necessary payment. But as I can see there is no real telling where they off and went. I’ll win the lottery and none but a penny will be needfully spent. Then I will just go and give where I never lent. I’ll be a philanthropist or like a politician remembering all the babies he’s kissed. Can’t go and wake up in the morning there wanting to be pissed. In fact that bitter little witticism of mine might not even belong in this list.

The seldom gleaned but growing green of indich cud. Creeping along for some ancestral and graymalkin coping mean. A light’s reflection made this out to confusion with suds. Let the pruning gleaner round up a levee flood. Cold wash away the cow’s own barn-red blood.

And so we see it is for this good kid to remain in her trust. And though she can taunt a bit with her outlandish ways there is not a grain of sand that should go bust. So come on enou, righteous and simply, stop that poor reason from being your fuss. I’m telling you so I don’t have to go out on that limb there treating you to none of my cuss.

Thrice I delivered your sayings to the ends that were loose. My livelihood thus made out likened unto a Western flying goose. Some of the incarnate wars dropping their tools and bringing out their respites at a truce. She made up neither a name for the freshet in her locks nor the child without labor on her back in a papoose. But when back it came on the much emaciated bull moose we found he had gotten his stockinged feet stuck in the fecund sluice. We already knew it must have been how the honeybee squeezed a lemon to cure with his nectar and juice.

The queen could hold him tight though at first they were rather attending to something of a boost. The varied and auld diffidence fared its way through. The media and its channels right on out to the news. So I sat around and came up with a song for her I called ‘That Kind Man’s Blues’

They came calling on me, so I figure I had already paid those dues. And you know, I am older now and I understand more of the assignations behind the stemming of the loci and voci proctors in our melodics. And stone’s throw wooing of this foundling and nascent innocence. And yes even its delightful dumbfoundedness in the mete of these so many efforts. Out to know our very own peculiars. Our relaxations, and our austerities. As well we would choose to afford them a good string or two, a few clues. Shifting in these reels I almost feel like the sour in the mash of some homemade fruit-top booze.

A Prayer For Christ Jesus

I sense to bode well

I see to know right

I seek that which is like and kind

So doing I am witness to the acts of God

I find while nature is eternal

So are my beliefs in heaven

I am sown as seed of faith

In the country of my mother

To come again renewed with life

In this way Christ is born, risen,

And lived until he was hanged from a cross

He came to save us from our sins

And we are redeemed by his salvation

His is the kingdom of the Lord

Divined of honor and glory

Through prayer and light

In Jesus name Amen

Cantus Abilis

The shade, the winning link. The one that the presses chose to go by. Whether a lemon still belongs in the tree or is it now got for the white picket fence as well. Taking part in a long and ornately drawn series of parades. There in the flight zone of the aviary and the walker of clouds. With the amalgam and the parlor fan. The frequent restitution of query.

The choice to be dishonest. To what purpose and to what ends. The spectrum is rather broad. One could simply choose to look out for another. Then again one could actually be trying to frame a loose acquaintance in their own feats of death defying grace. The relation with God whereby prayer and supplication along with offering and petition are led up toward the alter of receiving the divine into the heart, the loins, and the mind.

Somewhere like the chakras. Less mottled though. Really giving to each other the plea of dissemination. In the step taking, in the free exercise, and with all the tenderness and care that a loving set of open arms could give you. With these precepts in the rational field of change. Whereby no trespass is survivable in its own unnecessarily divergent and nasty want of a constant state of quarrel.

The need to make it out to change comes upon us again. It asks for the familiar. That which is in its essence a turning of the ephemeral charge. Blues and sunshine yes, but with the impression that not all will stay the same. Day by day through much seeking and in making out no such feckless saltiness in the take on the universal and its broad ocean swaths. With the rivers and currents both breaking up on the shore.

Long on the road is the way of the kenning song. The certainty that a jackdoe or her friend the muledeer can light up the marquees and spotlights on this man’s new run on the long Broadway. Walking with the sides and asides of the bully tom boss lumber yards. Inimitable given to the pathos of the tourists and scapeys. A penchant for the abased tonality in the transmission of freeweight and dummy’s bell.

Continuum, inertia, and perpetua. The glad free former in a gladdened gait of highstepping. Along the wickets, along the thickets, in the pitch and keep of the very blossoms’ troe. Down lengths of animate forested path. Fortunate as the believer in her garden. Looking over the lost crop of apostates prudent at the death of their pig. Does he still need that ring in his nose? Must his ears remain on fire and will he ever see straight so much again?

I must be sure the laggard slaggard aces remember their five finger discounts. So much for the name of fire. A supposed fallow light where the tramps have to excuse the trees from burning, the animals from dying, and the human flesh from conceiting itself and say please let it all in. Slating up karma and reciprocity for devil worship. Earth body disease point lye. The inquisitive lie. That must break the bough from its wise, from its nature, from its instinct.

A broken West heisting its own satisfactory course. The ride pig and her hustle in the slave yards of the forgotten sonambulist ditch. Stray dogs barking, braying with mules, howling with the wolves at the moon in the mid of night.

Wise Gymnasium Treats

Once, when I was 21 years olde, I went to sleep on Christmas Eve, in a Gynasium with about 60 other people. It was all gentlemen and we were in Los Angeles and the gynasium was serving as a men’s shelter. I was in the middle of the room. I had an acoustic guitar and a backpack under my cot to worry about but given the general report of murmering voices in the candlelike light and the wealth of good Holiday spirit that all of seaside Southern California is known for, I worried not and slept through the long night. I believe it was about 10:00pm and I think I slept until 5:30am the next morning.

The entire trip I was on had started when heading out of Eugene Oregon, looking for a Thanksgiving Meal to go to with the folks at ‘Welcome Home’, I had misplaced the road I was supposed to be on and was faced with the possibility of traveling quite a bit further and took that opportunity to continue my trek. And so within an additional day or two I hitchhiked all the way down to Santa Barbara CA. I arrived downtown late and caught a musician in need of some help with his gear and to thank me for my service eventually offered me the ride that would be my final leg into the city of Los Angeles.

This was specifically Venice beach where I can remember simply walking out beyond a cement outcropping into the sand to seek my bed. There with a tough camping sack and upon finding a depression in the ground I fell until morning into restless blissful dreaming about Tinseltown and Hollywood. Hearing the waves and some few nightbirds I was able to get to sleeping a good night’s rest before the rising Sun and the sleep in my eyes woke me from my dreams and showed me to a good and really new kind of day.

This is how I began my five week stay around the beaches and on the streets of Los Angeles in 1989

Labors Forward

Within the system of regularis and danse. There where the cold drawn width of a North wind tresses in gaits along the collar of an idle swept floor. The common names on fieldgrass make out a motley collection of jackstraws and the accompanying crossbound shadow of cloud cover in an ecocentric talisman of spinning story. Hot to cold. Top to bottom.

Insisting there must be some redemption in release. The quietude of half spent hours. Momentarily quivals with serendipity. An almost abstruse condition of fealty in the mirthful premonition of a taste for tailors and maids. The rye and sundry, the panate type of house mice. The lour of the native garb. An intrinsic plea for clemency under the ice tides of a skyward borne fantasy.

Fourth estate typecast sunny side project blues song. A viable couching of fears illigitimate. Emigre of heady distaffs and capitulation reasonable or not. The maven of all good seeking primates. She tends to garner her resorts from the flaxen and brogue mare. A light constraint consigned to parlor trap and jazz licks of the new second line. There in the gardens of the gentle lands. A noontime cresting of the diurnal cycle. Reminded by Sudland distances into night and its music. The roping of lightfall in the bracken shade of merry roving lamps.

Another day wakes ride. The dew sotty grass almost frosted with sitting wait on the new song. A furtive notion in the concerted vastness of stride. The leathernecking of canvases and green grasses with rice paper printable smittys’. The hanging of lyers at regards fending off the lumbering trespass of the red tape leer. A lie, a saught after despair. Being taught disheartened to fear knowing. An apprehensive state of parroted monkey witch. The ludicris trappings of the suicidal kudoos. Discordant a sound of making short step pitiance out of one’s brood.

Timeless really in that its victims are not taught when to die. Being instead and through subterfuge given to greed and envy after the fate of the foreshadowed beast. An innocent going down with the tide. A far cry from the consumate chaos of indulgent sinners. All gladly prizing the gluttony of doing away with the earthly estate. Being forced to go without resource or sustinence. Especially in the guise of those upholding her sphere’s very standards.

Our fair sovereign in the proper reckoning of the univer and the salty sea of that great reaching eternity. So many close knit watches of a superlative and highly Swiss disposition. The gab and gander of profligate feet. Not lost to the quarry of head games and being told to drown in so much incredulous cheddar. Again the trappings of a very vocal kind of bewitching. That damned way a horror makes laughter out of a stupid thing and such unwitting need for trust. Fit for nothing but the slavery of the lazy, feral, and ashamed.

A most certain kind of medicine wheel drunkenness. The narcissistic phenomenon to be exact. And my own ridiculous distinction at having found that I am over it. Life! Let it ring why don’t you. Let it always brave the passion of a well rounded commitment to its best revolutionary completion. Having the love and desire to care and care well for both its beginnings, being given a place and optimism for birth, as well as its endings, those things concerning fate and even karma if you will.

To me this speaks of the great work. The friendliness and compassion necessary to make good on being of service to others. Gracious to all. Of either high or low estate and rather relying on a God in heaven to gain that reward that one may objectify in the gleanings of ambition from the dreams and wishes for a better sense of familial and personal prosperity.

Serve the masses and believe that it is a God whom will bring us our just reward. For it is a many and varied thing that resides in the guise of a humane manner of being. Yes it is this thing simply to be known as passion that brings its light to those involved in the rounds of service when considering its upkeep. When honoring its pride. And in the light of its praises all for peoples and spirits, flora and fauna, water and stone.

To realize superceded in the contemporary dalliances of its hetero arts there conceives the wrest of the ages. A turning lemnescate of the eternal rosy snake of a weal and the caparisoning slakes of those idalyc exegesis straits. Coming to terms of origination and forbearing. No swat club for impromptu madness. No septic gloom for trespass to bar the ordinary its entry into our otherwise normal lives.

No this is a state of sovereign Earth and while our God remains in heaven so our loyalty to this sphere’s upkeep will continue to be judged and diagnosed and simply observed for that continuation of immortality they call a revolutionary cycle. And both regularity and knowing a good ride will sometimes feat the lands with heroics and bravadura’s lead toward honesty of love and compassion

But do not be given over to so much as idle want. For this want is no such impartiality in the sympathetic and thus staid manner in effects of a way we let on that what is essentially always in its first rite is a call to rest. To twist this around and make it out to plaint would be like saying “Well you know that old devil. What a shame he does not have more worshippers. Oh hell yeah! Yuck yuck😆.”

Going Down On The Grange

When Winter tidyness does not the stur assuage. When borderline frequencies don’t make out their want of a king to just any olde day. When the wine imbibes and the ale fades away. Well then how about some heavy sleep. Big time dreaming hum of a bus wold rolling down the great hiway. The dream, the interlude, the bright honors of a psalmody passing through. The rapture of humdrum, homespun, verified downtime.

The freshness of Spring, you see, is a feared thing, a scurrilous far off thing. Let the bunnies and the floral honeys plan for their roosts down in the comb, yeah. But let us not wretch at the fodder of our very own imimitable handles on the hours’ conquest of respite. If nothing is to be planned well then plain and simple nothing is to be garnered from without having its way.

A levee on the honest accords of want. To need to find a taker on by the shot loe tasking of recurrent shift in the pleasures of soon somedays returning to one with the fief of one’s rider. To go out on the lawn with becks and maybe Is and to guest with both the flora and the fauna of Mother Nature’s now open again lodges.

Completely in line with your wishes, mind you, and yet with her head above the waters in a way saying. Take it and take to it well. The wrest is that of sleep and no great and obfusicating burden of redown has need to bring anymore than recourse to the simple need to draw bridges before setting to many of one’s batches out on the tables.

Can you imagine the thoroughfares all opening up, just that famished, and saying Mamma feed me. My belly pocket is so empty I am squimmish to so much as lift the 1st of your wonderful cups of tea. Must have something from the larder to go by. Cereals and their grains. Dairy of cheeses and creams, the carnivore barkers and the fire of their most conditional lights.

Links set up one by one and given to the truck and bumper. A tilt a whirl sound of hot ballsap pine. The broacher in the loping gait of accustomed foggy woodland breakdownd amidst the sunshine. A kind of magic reserved for those things top drawer. The climactic exegisis of one gone tolerant head of the bobs. A booked sooth of mindful ribs and bouts.

The japing old monkey’s 1st Son. Glad to be held up to the discernment of ordinary and enviolate realms of the environment. In both locale and voice committed to the fealty of no such overdrawn solution. To the quick with you and loud. So that you will at least remember having had it as if things or rather familiars were going otherwise.

For the duration and of a destiny to more than survive. To prosper and to let go of and to outwardly receive those gifts in the light of jests. On the floor, between friends and older than the hills in their suggestions that these quips, these pips, should be more than convenient. They should actually in fact be saved.

Courageously and with much vigor. Lest the abased seat of time should have to quake for having not been given proper time to awaken from its lengthy drowse and commit to new joya and daylit productive hours of the steppy and the smiling phase.

Psychepomp Cycle

These are the stories of an aggressive and well defined circle of spiritual intentions. The feating and fleeting sentiments and sensibilities and sensations of an accompanying fugue. Both in figure and plane. The broach of amiacable contentment. That which lays out the pathos and ethos and ethics of cultivated and equitable models in the vastering depths of the sometimes lucid sometimes green field of repeal formed in moral play

What manner of being in the carbon sphere does the wrap turn to in the guise of the chant of the common laud in the prayerful days of a simple natural religion. Do not be anyone who would profane the inclination to bleary eyed take on a quick rise and to a Tee greet the morning with cheer and chuckle too.

These stories you see are like the inner fealt of a conjure bag 💼 full of tied up tricks. I do not truly know if a single 100 mile patch of ground still exists whereby culturation of the frim and fram are not of the righteously drawn consensus of crafts and folk.

Steady persons can of their own volition and in the advent of other synergies at last exit from the roadhouse into the leadened darkness of another country by the fielded hand ✋ and foot 👣 barrows. But lead us down no longer into the ranks with any such culumny of effects that would speak ill of the given discourses and featured parlance that may as well accompany this choice supplication of words, even through the rhetorically enthused burn off of hunting grounds and only just begun with the cavorting after a simple spore.

There in those sanctums and sanctuaries of the terrible wild fleece, where every good savage has their digs about level with Walden’s American Grot or the NW Passage home 🏠 of fish 🐟 oil and eskimos. The long running 🏃 weathers and those landed massies indentured to the willing turn of the chutzpa and the grandiose schtick.

To remember what is my own way rather than what is a given to those suspect whom might be filtched and lied to that there can be no way that their’s could have actually survived for the sake of there being all the many and plenty. Not without the blessing as well on those whom are to be in the proper remembered as upright and also quite propiteous otherlings in the citizenry and charge.

Faith does not turn bad or sour. It can die and it does regularly as many times as a country can count its generations. Knowing that that sideways figure eight repents and suffers and goes to the town graveyard and is always followed by yet another trip to a morning hospital. And it should be known that you conceive that immortality is anything more than the revolutions of a respectful soul.

Known that without these revolutions in the selfsame soul the resulting body of effects would enmasse with its other more squimish consorts and be caught up in a rebuff of full on cancer. Believe it. Those lies were always told to children and the embarrassment and fear of speaking on those things as if they wrote the bane of the parental existence. Well then this country would look much as it does today.

Before complaint resides anymore here than the horrific embarrassment of flesh camping out in the desert to the renig of its heralds, the moronicism of its diets, and the futile watchers of its ornate and emblematic despotism towards proper 16 church cast of strains.

Does not pass go. Must get back to the Earth and make good on the trust of experience those involved can properly call living. If there are any stories that Man 👨 and his Son can tell in the frightened prat fallen lands of a few too many nosey heels, a few too many fallen stars, a few too many wealthy polititians. Well then give that to the reign of the knack. And don’t just write 📝 them down. No these deserve to be told aloud before the astounded and the audacious. Given to the common vernacular and emboldened with the saga of the scald and the tale of the bard.

Graciously and without remorse in the naming of those things causual and in definitely resorting to the manner of entities that would narrow a field considerably. If the worst of experiences is what precludes there being any given need to enliven those experiences honestly. If some few pleasant crescendos of a recognition. A lucigious taste for feeling of sentience can be raised up without need to alter.

If the pattering of feet and the brush of a tale wag so early in the morning you wish the Sun would at least rise. This and allow you to realize that yes 👍 indeed there are heavens during the daylight in the direction of the stars. That without need or will to make it out to descry that there are still them that are drawing maliciously quick and unfortunately many will see that that unkind of dream 💭 will probably sweep away the country before it gets around to the tide.

If the covenant of those things we know to be holy is to remain steadfast in the bounty of our Sovereign Mother Earth. Then there is this storying of the psychefancy in the illimitable planning and gauges of rational endeavour. Sample this. The stories are many. They are not all remembered of mind and there are others who know them as well.

Let the new season proceed and let the balance in the goodness of Earth remember them(the stories) as each they are our own. And that that it is well to both know and fear, overwhelm and forget. Rise and fall 🍂. Inhale and exhale. Blink and look ’round the yon.

Between Stops

If the rancorred out of alms surfeiting quidditch bedlam were, all sudden and joyous, to say we do receive you. Your joy, your pain, your serious examples of precience in your charge. This is the calm repose of an expectant and much concerned citizen. The queries unto the publishing of pride at a time like this is persona non grata at best. There are inequivably straight and narrow passes to roll by but for the inner lambaste of the hilarious ‘five spot’ returned in the middle of a trafficking street.

Why do you appear so full of glee? What does Saturnalia and wassailing must have knitting the psalmody of Providence. Is error to do with going a souling up into the Winters for solistice. The other side of the Moon is cracked open by taxidermist duck waddle. There are schools of ‘Bluebird’ busses that make their way pre-dawn down the same passes as the Roman legions in the Mythraic gear. The souls of Osiris and his children make due on the Summer side.

The tropic of Cancer takes her bath in a wheelhouse. There comes as well the Sud of that once archipelagoic North tolerant transmigrary of nascent love, long under the chase of the quaint and contrapted. The Orient makes final assessment by consensus of the high borne heirarchied repasses going up a frustrate pitch at the sight of a yearling hopping at the door. The breezy fireless equine strength is almost undue the remittance to savagry by the Levant and it’s sequence of events.

This makes most certy the bough is not to go nameless. As at last there arrived the old man with penchant airs. This all culumnating upon the mileu like airborne rectitude and mourning of the esplanade. New days dawn right on up and out of that same get back and stamp enth degree. Same as the time on my travelers’ papers I got a long ride back to tinsel town and Hollywood LA. There’s a tree cutter got to miss his date. And the deserted confab hutch has a few cats’ prints to explain for itself.

With these few time honored figs and mints of my imagination may your calends end upright and your domain get you through the steps your taking in your life today. This is returning and this is awakening. May your songs upwell bright. If the child is a million strong give him the 4th estate for his bearing and moor. The thoughtpot and the ringback vicarious be with you. Live and Let it be lol The BuddyHollyWoodyGuthrie Sign fly bye to you and you and you.

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