Breadcrumbs


Breadcrumbs



“What could have happened to that?” he wondered, not for the first nor the last time that lifetime.


* * * *

Here it is; do with it what you will.


* * * *

These aphoristic thoughts are for that potential future

When the idolatry of religion has turned to sand,

When materialism has fallen on its sword,

When Mother Nature in her fashion

Begins cutting out the cancer

That has so scarred her garden.

It may never happen, but if it does,

Just remember, it is not about the scribe.

Please do not make that mistake ever again.

It is the message, not the messenger, that counts.


* * * *

Anybody who judges this work

By how well or poorly it is written

May well be missing the whole point.


* * * *

Regarding getting this babble-on marketed, let me put it this way:

It ain't Harry Potter or Jack Ryan or Nancy Drew,

And the last name ain’t Kardashian.


* * * *

Death will be like: "Man, finally, a good night's sleep.”


* * * *

I give you my mind, and the Soul is already yours.


* * * *

As if my opinion on anything really matters to anyone.


* * * *

Waking up to another day in the Stupid Game.


* * * *

No way would I ever buy an electric car, or willingly get into a driverless car.

Doubt I would ever get a bells-and-whistles digitalized car, either.

Old School through and through, and happier for it.


* * * *

Do not think to many human hives interest me anymore.

Alas that any captivation, any fascination, with our species,

Has pretty much achieved its endgame across the board.


* * * *

It is the best that could be done on short notice, sorry.


* * * *

Another day residing in this mind's quantum fountain,

Pen and paper or keyboard ever within easy reach,

Waiting casually for words that inevitably come.


* * * *

Mayhem and death, my kind of world.


* * * *

A philosopher!

What a useless calling.

What would your mother say?

Oops, she did, oh, sorry.


* * * *

The actual life resume is much more than a page or three,

And among other things includes the title “Galactic Engineer.”


* * * *

The pitter-patter of yet another thought rains onto paper.


* * * *

Believe me, there is no expectation herein that anything in the human drama will change.

I am just reflecting on whatever comes to mind, posing a wide melee of thoughts.

I hold out little hope that our cancerous species is even remotely capable

Of reigning in its passionate mind and myriad instinctual drives.

My predictions for the future are not in any way optimistic.

More of the same-old-same-old is more than a little probable,

But only for as long as Mother Nature condescends our existence.


* * * *

My mistake that I took the light in your eye to be intelligence.


* * * *

Another voice echoing in the tumultuous crowd.


* * * *

My stage is the keyboard


* * * *

Feeling the Grinch; resisting wandering through Whoville.


* * * *

It will not put the fire out, but it might help quench a few parched throats.


* * * *

Yet another reason why I need to find a cave and never pretend to be a human being again.


* * * *

The inevitable oil crash may well be the kickoff to tumultuous waves of famine

That will bring this unsustainable human spectacle to its knees.

After the initial hysteria and chaos moderates,

Thoughts such as these

May receive a bit more attention.

But then again, it is more than a little likely

That this haggard paradigm will adapt to the new scale,

And carry on in the same oafish, no-win pattern that it always has.


* * * *

Never completely trained to do the right thing,

Ergo every variety of gray-man adventure played.


* * * *

A walking-talking ironic paradox.


* * * *

A good friend, Roland, suggested writing poetry.

A small-town newspaper stint established the discipline

To wander around, notebook in hand, observing, questioning.

Merritt, another friend, said I should write it down,

And somewhere in the many adventures,

The reflections began spilling

From mind to paper.

As Lee said,

Who would have thunk it.


* * * *

Not necessarily meant to be read in one or three sittings by all but the most obsessed.


* * * *

Setting things right is an arduous task.


* * * *

Who better to take this life than yours truly.


* * * *

Basking in irony and paradox.


* * * *

This work has been supported by a variety of day jobs, and night ones, too.

So no worries about it ever being monetized by anyone, anywhere, anytime.


* * * *

Loyal to all and one.


* * * *.

Through randomness, happenchance, serendipity,

The rare audience for these reflections is stumbled upon.

One never knows for whom these thoughts will toll.


* * * *

The ramblings of a mind gone rogue.


* * * *

The prophet of doom may finally be worth heeding.


* * * *

A certain amount of arrogance is required to write such things.


* * * *

Just a watcher, anymore, but never lose much if any sleep over it.

More about being continually astounded, boggled, actually,

That such a avaricious, hedonistic, narcissistic species

Has survived and thrived for as long as it has.


* * * *

Of the scribe, it can be said: He came, he saw, he wrote.


* * * *

What a timeless enterprise this has been.


* * * *

Taking the debate to a whole new level.


* * * *

What am I really saying?


* * * *

If there is some sort of personal deity, as so many incline to believe,

Then, pray tell, answer me this: Where did he/she/it/whatever come from?

Granted, this quantum mystery had to begin somehow, sometime, somewhere,

But some Santa-Claus-heaven-hell fiction does not slice the mustard.

And do not get me started on the alien speculation advocates.

This orb is a garden enough to do it on its own.


* * * *

My kind of fun.


* * * *

How draining all the tortures this body endures.

Pleasure anymore has become the absence of pain.


* * * *

So much stuff that I will never use again,

But alas, I am a material boy turned hoarder.


* * * *

Finally got my fill.


* * * *

I don’t do commandments; no mindless followers in my camp.

Why in any god’s name would anyone ever want to be a dittohead?


* * * *

So many words for an unseen audience, who will likely never even begin to read them.

Ah well, it has been quite a process; there are many lesser ways to wander the time.


* * * *

The point and purpose of these way more than too many babblings

Is to inoculate all with the seed of doubt, the key to awakening.


* * * *

Reborn, again, sigh.


* * * *

Arrogance in its most indivisible vision.


* * * *

On the whole, Jesus, at only 33, got out of it

With a lot less suffering than those many

Who endure a much longer existence.


* * * *

Disclaimer: All that has been written herein may be wrong.

Duality may well be the fundamental reality of it all.

And maybe you will someday decide to become a Christian,

Or a Muslim, or a Jew, or a Buddhist, or a Taoist, or a whatever.

So many flavors; hard to pick just one, and what if you choose wrong?


* * * *

Ha, ha, good joke, Mister Michael, you make me laugh plenty much.


* * * *

The same conversations every day; old is as old does.


* * * *

Have I written anything exactly this way before,

Or is this just slightly nuanced enough

So as to be absolutely unique

In its own special way?

As the photographer knows

Every photograph s/he has ever taken,

It seems just so with this aphoristic compendium.

And still the font flows with thoughts anew.


* * * *

What a journey this life has been.

And as has ever been true,

There is really no telling

Exactly what will happen next.


* * * *

These many thoughts merely point out what seems obvious to these eyes.

What outcome they may, or likely will not serve in bringing about,

Are the choices of consciousness that play out in every mind.


* * * *

You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.


 * * * *

Over thirty years of babble; please excuse the repetition.


* * * *

May be right, may be wrong, no boubt adout it.


* * * *

A relatively anonymous enterprise

That likely will never be known in any meaningful way.

So be it, 'twas a good run all the same.


* * * *

El maestro de nada.


* * * *

An unfinished work, until that last wheezing breath.


* * * *

Bone weary.


* * * *

Bitter medicine for what ails us all.


* * * *

These many thoughts are for those who survive the fall.


* * * *

An interjection into history's unfolding.


* * * *

I'm so sorry.

You were right, I was wrong.

It won't happen again.

Please don't hate me.

Please forgive me.

You're beautiful.

I love you.


* * * *

Old enough to know better than to wish for another lifetime.


* * * *

A herald of eternity disentangling the mystery for all who would clearly see.


* * * *

Merely pointing out the obvious

To those discerning and courageous enough

To see the truth of it for themselves.


* * * *

Yes, I probably should be interested, but alas, I just cannot summon more than a yawn.


* * * *

Yet another day in this very annoying body.


* * * *

How we are not already extinct is beyond me.

​* * * *​

Having for all practical purposes written off the human species,

I really should cease and desist from further commentary,

But no, I blather on and on, basking in the play of wit,

Such as it is in this temporal gray-matter dream.

It is, indeed, a waste of time, but what else is time for?


* * * *

It is my preference to make each day up as it timelessly kaleidoscopes,

Not always referencing concocted ideals for fear of sundry judgments.


* * * *

Guaranteed, I have many less important things to do.


* * * *

Doubt I would have made much of a spy or prisoner of war.

Count on me to sing like a bird if it will deflect the maw of pain.


* * * *​

Just shake my head at anyone who ​truly ​believes

Humankind will ever get off this planet in any meaningful way.

And what is the friggin' point of colonies on the Moon or Mars or anywhere else,

That will be unsustainable without absurdly expensive supply chains?

And with all the dominos a-quivering on this dying planet,

How will anything even get off the ground?

The absurdity is boggling.


​* * * *​

This life force, this spirit, older than the stars, younger than the moment,

Has been entertained by so many adventures, so many narratives, so many wits.

How exceedingly satisfied, how remarkably blessed I am to have been me.


* * * *

I call it aloneliness, and it be one of my favoritest things to be.


* * * *

All this articulation means nothing, changes nothing, the Fates are at the wheel.


* * * *

The daze on the calendar tick off one after another.

Occasionally I wonder which one will belong to the Reaper.

However, let me put it this way: I am not losing any sleep over it.


* * * *

Yet another cad.


* * * *

Yet another in the long and growing list of bothers the future will have to manage without me.​


* * * *

Yes, it is possible that I have it all wrong.

It is possible that by the time you peruse this,

I will be unhappily roasting in the inferno of Hades.

Not likely, by my estimate, but it is possible.


* * * *

Irreverence is the spice of life.


* * * *

Ask me if I care.


* * * *

What need for a stage when you are your favorite audience?


* * * *

Change the world? Hah! Good luck with that.


* * * *

What do you mean I can’t take it with me?


* * * *

If there is some sort of plan to all this, it is well beyond my pay grade.


* * * *

Life is meditation, at least for some of us.


* * * *

I have absolutely no interest

In being placed on some absurd pedestal,

Only to be dragged down by some small-minded mob.


* * * *

Not interested in creating anything organized or otherwise;

Only laying bare the reality of the quantum dream all endure.


* * * *

​ Law-abiding when it suits me.


* * * *

A Serial Plinker


* * * *

Am so over being a human being; I would never voluntarily do this again.​


* * * *

Only rarely are women enticing after they let you catch them.

All that mystique is a façade of the Darwinian natural selection kind.


* * * *

I am a liar, I am a cheat, I am a thief, and I plot murder and mayhem daily.

That said, hypocrisy and pretentiousness are not strangers at the table, either.


* * * *

No power, no fame, no fortune, no bother.

A peasant, a plebeian, pure and simple and free.

Watching the cabaret as only no other can.


* * * *

The things so many think important, I just don’t understand.


* * * *

Know too much history to bother fighting its unfolding.


* * * *

A plebeian, king of no other.


* * * *

Even if these thoughts had been penned thousands of years ago, it would have made no difference.

The innate predispositions of pride and envy and gluttony and lust and wrath and greed and sloth

Are far too resilient for the human species to have played it out differently in any significant way.


* * * *

Probably could have done a lot of things that matter even less that what I did.


* * * *

Because it sounds good, that’s why.


* * * *

Don’t need to know; don’t need to care.


* * * *

For an audience with the eyes to see and the ears to hear.


* * * *

So many shoulda-coulda-wouldas.


* * * *

Found out that last bug I squashed was God,

Which assuaged my guilt somewhat.

If I had known beforehand,

I might have taken more time.


* * * *

Have done far too many foolish things to warrant any great title.


* * * *

It sounded good at the time.


* * * *

So many things to care about, and I just do not want to anymore.


* * * *

You can bet if I had a billion dollars in the piggy bank

That I would pretty much be doing what I am already doing.

Wealth is a state of mind; it does not require a massive pile of gold.


* * * *

My contribution to the esoteric mix.


* * * *

Obituaries are not something about which I bother tracking.

Everyone is assumed dead unless I see proof of life,

And then only while the moment lasts.


* * * *

When it comes to dealing with the mystery of existence,

History seems to have dished up every possible delusion imaginable.

These many thoughts are for those whose only real hunger

Is to discern the truth of it for themselves.


* * * *

An everyday affair of heart and mind played out by a body dallying in time.


* * * *

Yes, among the many advantages of word processing,

The dictionary, thesaurus, and spell-check rank high.


* * * *

Another transcendent moment articulated.


* * * *

A gift for a world without a future.


* * * *

Many far more articulate philosopher-mystics out there than I, to be sure.


* * * *

Oh, duality, release me from thy clutches.


* * * *

Grappling with existence every day in every conceivable way.


* * * *

It is tiring when I do it, and even more so when you do.


* * * *

Did I write these many thoughts?

Or did they inscribe themselves through me?

Another uninspiring example of don’t-know-don’t-care.

It just be a diversion, something that passes a portion of the dream.


* * * *

I am forgetting myself long before history will.


* * * *

A vehicle on a journey through hell and heaven and every purgatory between.


* * * *

What I have to teach cannot be taught; it is a fate to which few feel called.


* * * *

All these thoughts will change nothing; so pointless that I keep putting them out there anyway.


* * * *

Not a skillset that I have ever contemplated, much less been inspired to learn.


* * * *

Lacking any particular agenda in this existence,

I just sort of took on whatever adventures, exotic to mundane,

That life offered in the unfolding happenstance.


* * * *

I really prefer my own thoughts to those of any other.


* * * *

Not a dittohead.


* * * *

How to be as lazy as possible, without being too lazy.


* * * *

I may be too old for you, but you ain’t too young for me.


* * * *

Just as small-mindedly parochial as everybody else.


* * * *

I’d put a bullet in my head before I’d mount that look.


* * * *

How did I offend thee? Let me mend the ways.


* * * *

A legacy of reflections about every variety of things mundane to esoteric,

All randomly placed in such a manner as to insure that any reader

Would have to spend a great deal of time to ever mine it all.


* * * *

Satan and I meet regularly for coffee and catch-up.

God and I have agreed not to bother each other.


* * * *

Not being brilliant in any specific field of play,

I have somehow gotten through it to this point in time

Being an all-rounder of sorts, both mentally and physically,

With enough grit, enough gumption to endure this window of mind.


* * * *

The seamless indivisibility of awareness is default setting.


* * * *

Effed the ineffable.


* * * *

This is the book that has been scribed and lost many times in many places.


* * * *

For most my foolish deeds, I have only myself to blame.


* * * *

Drunk or sober, all the same.


* * * *

Thank the Good Lord I was born in tradition-free Kaliforny,

And don’t have to play any way but whatever comes naturally.


* * * *

El Scribe: A receiver unit, no more, no less.


* * * *

That sort of miracle and cultish following thing may have tempted Jesus,

But it does not do anything at all for me at this, or any other time, either.


* * * *

Some need to rule the world; I say better you than me.


* * * *

Hanging on, hanging out.


* * * *

Bad student; always forgetting.


* * * *

Just took whatever came, and what a ride, what a ride,

Letting the winds of nature-nurture blow where they did.


* * * *

I am as alone in my dream as you are in yours; we are all alone, together.


* * * *

I am going to let you live because I am not hungry.


* * * *

This is what this mind does.

Another example of a fate less chosen.

Accept it for what it is; any critique is meaningless.

Make it your own if you discern it so.


* * * *

I am such a tool.


* * * *

A saloon pick-up line that only just occurred to this graybeard:

Like your look; might you be interested in seeing

If there is any chemistry together?

Alas, way too late.


* * * *

My version of knitting.


* * * *

Things must like me; I have enough of them.


* * * *

Sage and fool, vying for supremacy in one mind.


* * * *

You bring it out of me, man, I just can’t help my Self.


* * * *

If I were to get on stage with all this, it would risk becoming about me.

To throw it out JohnnyAppleseed fashion means it must persevere on its own merit.

And if it dies on the vine, well, scribing it has been a curious diversion.

There is no saving anything anyway, so what the hey.


* * * *

Don’t need love, don’t need hate, like is okay, though.


* * * *

Another case of mystical post-traumatic stress disorder.


* * * *

A brief, narcissistic existence, replete with fabricated, delusionary meaning,

Surrounded in all directions by an eternally infinite ocean of purposelessness.


* * * *

This can be painful, too.


* * * *

Mighty handy being born with an already receding memory.


* * * *

Do not fear to tread where other tongues have gone.


* * * *

Nobody but you watching.


* * * *

Seriously people, might it be at all possible to have a discussion

Without it far too often descending into some total war scenario?


* * * *

“Seemed like an eternity” is pretty accurate when you discern every moment is.


* * * *

About so many things could I weep had I any tears left to spend.


* * * *

What I do is not necessarily what I imagine.


* * * *

There is absolutely no order to this aphoristic collage.


* * * *

Too much to bother about, much less remember.


* * * *

I who have done so many foolish things to reach this graying stage

Do not need to continue wandering down that short-sighted trail.


* * * *

The way I see it is the way I write it, and within you it is surely no different.

All differences are the dreamy perceptions of the sensory mind

Caught up in the time of its imaginary epic.


* * * *

Not necessarily the greatest writings out there,

But it will help get you started if it is your calling.


* * * *

Cannot begin to remember so much of it anymore.

The potholes of the neural highways are aplenty.


* * * *

While all you industrious Demigods of the One Percent rule and ravage the world,

I think I will just take a nice little siesta in my favorite hammock.

Many thanks for making this dream possible.

You can, however, move on and bask in someone else’s envy.


* * * *

Once again made the mistake thinking I had seen it all.


* * * *

If you think these writings are espousing something

Political or economic or religious or otherwise of the temporal mundane,

Well, let us just say “No,” and you move on; it ain’t your time.


* * * *

There are things that you know that I do not,

And things I know that you do not.

Knowledge is like that.


* * * *

I am the center of, the creator of, the witness to, my universe.

And unless every other form, alive or not, is a projection of my imagination,

You and everyone else is, too.

Fucking amazing.


* * * *

The scribe who funneled all this should be of little or no concern.

That it was penned from Self to Self is the point upon which to bear.


* * * *

What can more flames do to an already burnt slice of toast?


* * * *

Don’t get me started.


* * * *

All my many attempts to help others, save others, panned out a few times

In sideways-topsy-turvy-inside-out-convoluted-mangled sorts of ways.


* * * *

How much longer will I concern my Self with this world

And the absurdly, wretchedly insoluble human dilemma?

Rest assured, there will be no Noah in my last judgment.


* * * *

She’s so beautiful from afar, why would you want to get any closer?


* * * *

If it pleases me, why should I care about anyone’s opinion one way or another?


* * * *

Alas that I lacked a better taste for corruption than temptation allowed.


* * * *

Best move on if you are looking for happy-happy babble.


* * * *

Yup, it be cheatin’ using chemical means to get your Self back to the homestead,

But you will find elsewhere what I think about them things of a principled nature.


* * * *

This is what comes out of me like nothing else ever has, or likely ever will.

Ever since Roland long ago suggested I write poetry, that it was kind of fun.


* * * *

I am a liar, a cheat, a thief, and daily plot murder and mayhem

Between bouts of excessive debauchery and inordinate treachery.

But at least I am not a hypocrite more often than vain notion calls.


* * * *

They … just … won't … stop … coming …


* * * *

Lazier by the day.


* * * *

My religion is awareness; consciousness is but imagination dreaming.


* * * *

Cheeky bloke, eh what.


* * * *

No order to these many reflections.

In their long transcription, they have been mixed

And re-mixed too many times to count.

So open your Self to any page

To fathom the moment

In which you eternally dwell.


* * * *

Yes, there were many, many mistakes.

Perfection is someone else’s propaganda.


* * * *

What was life like before you knew everything.


* * * *

That about which I Am.


* * * *

Yet another Dead Poet in the making.


* * * *

A life that was open to whatever interesting experiences happened along.


* * * *

I am most definitely not Holden Caulfield.


* * * *

No longer interested in all the dishonesty and delusion, sorry.

Just serving this wreck of a world in whatever way the day calls.


* * * *

All this words have bubbled onto paper

Because the scribe is prone to easily forgetting

The unseen reality in the day-to-day of work and play.

Despite the many reflections about existence and absoluteness,

He is not quite austere enough, at this writing, to completely surrender

To the be-in-the-world-but-not-of-it everlasting god-drunk

That the indivisible emptiness of eternity offers.

And so, the words keep coming.


* * * *

Thirty-ish years of scribing – uncensored, unbound, unblemished, untamed –

Whatever thoughts spontaneously came to mind in any given twinkling.

Aphorisms of every variety randomly making their way to minds

Destined to contemplate them in whatever way they will.


* * * *

You think your power, your fame, your wealth,

Your houses, your clothes, your jewelry, your things,

Your titles, your degrees, or any other hollow airs,

Mean anything to those who see you as you are?


* * * *

Not a big believer that anyone is going to save anybody here or any elsewhere.


* * * *

Latest t-shirt or baseball cap: I don’t care.


* * * *

To be this tranquil for the rest of time? Hmm, tough call, tough, indeed.


* * * *

It is all compensation for consequences at this point.


* * * *

Just passing time until it passes me.


* * * *

Unwritten expectations are not my line of expertise; don’t read minds, neither.


* * * *

Toying with history, one aphorism at a time.


* * * *

Etchings of yet another mind snared by the vision of totality.


* * * *

If the reader's literary filter is too high-minded

To appreciate the mundane verbosity

Of this aphoristic style,

Then carry on missing the point entirely.


* * * *

Threw away the armor and ditched the valiant steed a long, long time ago.


* * * *

Oh joy, something else to forget.


* * * *

So tiring, all the inanity to which one is subjected day after day after day.


* * * *

A little something about nothing, for what it’s worth.


* * * *

Just not interested in any more dog and pony shows.

Carny acts of the manifest kind, if you get the drift.


* * * *

Swimming alone in the deep end, again.


* * * *

Not what the world wants to hear at this point in time.

Alas, the fields of Armageddon will be awash

In the blood of pride’s martyrdom.


* * * *

The depths of my cynicism are impossible to plumb.


* * * *

That which in the prime of youth,

I knew so well,

Is in the many years since

So challenging to more than vaguely recall.

So many lifetimes in just this one.


* * * *

Saving the world one bullet at a time.


* * * *

Not here to save anything or anybody,

Just letting you know once again what you really are.

Pointing out the obvious to those rare few with the wit to discern it.


* * * *

“Without history, we are nothing,” a good friend long ago said.

And now, I would say to him, “Even with history, we are nothing.”


* * * *

Attempting to express in words what words can never tell.


* * * *

Trudging in and out of the desert to leave these writings

For a future readership that may or may not ever exist.


* * * *

Never had much ambition, and even less now.


* * * *

If there is plagiarism in this soliloquy,

Consider it an intentional, if misguided act,

Done only to aid in amplifying the original work,

Should someone recognize the foul deed.


* * * *

Get it straight, my fine pretty,

Your shit ain’t no sweeter

Than anyone else’s,

And your pee

Ain’t nectar, neither.


* * * *

Why should it ever matter to me what you or anyone else thinks of me?


* * * *

I will never know what became of all this babble.

What I imagine of the future is that it will not in any way be pretty,

And all the chitter-chatter in the world will not put Humpty Dumpty back together again.


* * * *

These many thoughts began bubbling out in 1989

After a head and neck injury invoked by a miscalculated wave

While boogie boarding with my fifth-sixth grade class in Southern Kaliforny.

It was the finale of a short teaching phase, and the entrée to an assortment of switchbacks

In the ever-kaleiscoping wanderfest of imagination, in work and recreation and every other whatever,

That has materialized all this whimsical chitter-chatter into this quantum playground.

It has been my way to allow spontaneity to fashion this destiny.


* * * *

Never quite master of that, either, oh well.


* * * *

She asked me how I am, and I replied, “Heck if I know.”

* * * *

Play it again, Mike.


* * * *

He was not disappointed that his fate did not allow that.


* * * *

It is this life’s wander that composes this mein kampf.


* * * *

It has been very enjoyable wandering innocently in this garden world

Before it devolved into something so increasingly stagnant and inhospitable.

Condolences to all those who will never experience clean water, clean air, clean soil,

And lands and oceans and skies so replete with so many magical creatures.

Would that humankind could have somehow tacked a wiser course.


* * * *

No interest in that level of absurdity anymore.


* * * *

Stuffed on my more.


* * * *

So many things left to do, so little time left in the tick-tick-tick of it all.


* * * *

​ Hanging on by the hair of my chinny chin chin.


* * * *

Why would anything hang with someone who offers them nothing?


* * * *

These words are really for those

Who come into life after the great fall,

Those seeking to understand what happened,

Those trying to re-establish and re-order and re-align

With the natural rhythms of the only garden we will ever know.

For some future set of friends I will never meet,

But already know as intimately

As I do my Self.


* * * *

One of the many favorite things to do.


* * * *

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the truth,

And it, most definitely, is not what you or any other thinks.


* * * *

Witty ditties at every turn.


* * * *

Far more satisfaction writing it than any will have reading it.


* * * *

Thou art a good villain.


* * * *

To those who peruse these many thoughts,

Please note that they were all spontaneously combusted

Of a mind given over to ponder as it wandered.


* * * *

Another revolutionary manifesto.


* * * *

If there is any goal to these many thoughts,

It is to realign the quantum mind

With what it really is,

With what it is really not.


* * * *

All rested up and ready for the next nap.


* * * *

Written for those whose calling it is to be a mind of god.


* * * *

Lending the future a hand, one ponder at a time.


* * * *

Please feel free to rewrite anything

If it is within your mind better written.

No one owns it, every one owns it.


* * * *

Woke up again this morning: Oh well, so it went, dealt with it, got over it, moved on.


* * * *

Dagnabbit, these ponders keep a-coming; indeed, even this babble gets a mite old.


* * * *

No known royal line or grand titles in this scribe’s lineage.

Just preachers and teachers and farmers,

Peasants all.

A mutt, pure and simple.


* * * *

Please, whatever you do, do not make this about the scribe.

He was just another vain, mortal meat machine,

Born of the same mystery as you.


* * * *

Growing more than a little weary

Holding ye old breath for a slim slice of sanity

At this daily-closer-to-endgame juncture of the mortal timeline.


* * * *

Drakarys!


* * * *

Can’t … stop … it …

It … just … won’t … leave … me … alone …

Oh, bitter, sweet fate.


* * * *

Editing is about making ideas more accurate, more concise, more effective.


* * * *

A little bundle of thoughts left quietly on the doorstep

For some future abiders to perchance unlock and unravel

Some greater sanity in the human soiree of manifest time.


* * * *

Curious how these aphoristic ditties

Sometimes get started heading one direction,

And while being written or edited, swerve into another.

The zany wander of a mind pondering the mystery of its origin.


* * * *

Trump this if you can.


* * * *

Please consider all this dittyfesting silliness to be feedback

From a relatively disinterested, relatively rational observer,

Some of it even speckled with a relative dash of egalitarianism.


* * * *

Odds are long that many in any time to come

Will ever have access to, much less read,

These many ponderings of mind.


* * * *

Apologies to all you dreamy idealists,

But … if … if … if only …

Just ain’t enough.

Ya gotta wake up, man.


* * * *

There are far lesser things to do with one’s time

Than to lounge about scribbling down

Whatever comes to mind.


* * * *

Of course many of these ditties might be better scribed.

Feel free to change up anything in whatever way you please.


* * * *

What might one have expected, but that a contemplative demon,

No less vain than any other two-legged, would scribe such a work.


* * * *

Of that quasi-neutral condition called slumber in these close-to-endgame times:

One or two hours happens; three is tolerable; four, typical; five, desirable; six, a miracle;

Seven a gift from God; and eight or more, last seen in the vicinity of childhood’s end.


* * * *

I wonder at the book Orwell would write now.


* * * *

Dagnabbit, Wabbit! Shoulda-coulda-woulda said it better.


* * * *

Beyond jaded.


* * * *

How can anyone abide this rambling cacophony

If they lack the ironical mind, the paradoxical wit?


* * * *

To which me are you referring?


* * * *

A relatively nice guy making his way,

With an occasional dip into evil incarnate,

Just to keep the yinny-yangy thingee in balance.


* * * *

Amusing my Self one day at a time.


* * * *

Why all this effort?


* * * *

Herein is how these eyes discern reality,

And you will make of it whatever you will.


* * * *

Are you as much me as I Am?


* * * *

If that is what you call love, I think I will take a pass.


* * * *

Letting the tummy do the walking.


* * * *

Hmmm … career choices … let me see now …

Doctor, lawyer, accountant, teacher, fireman, farmer,

Social worker, policeman, psychologist, politician,

Despot, drug lord, mercenary, serial killer …


* * * *

An intellectual reverie of the eternal flame.


* * * *

Don’t need that in my head.


* * * *

Less a snob than adamantly independent.


* * * *

Not at all in the mood for any man-made absurdities this day,

A lengthy wandering into the conclusion of which

Only a moderate dose of gin and tonic

Can comfortably navigate.


* * * *

A wryly humorous, curmudgeonly day, it is, it is.


* * * *

Pen and paper in hand, and the discipline to use them.


* * * *

This is a work that wrote itself one serendipitous thought at a time,

Until that last wheezing breath stole away forever the given mind.


* * * *

Another meditative day for words of a random nature

To flow uninhibited from the matrix of consciousness.


* * * *

To discern what ends these words will meet, if any,

Is but an imaginary ponder only time will ever know.


* * * *

A Johnny Appleseed grassroots campaign of sorts.

A passive-aggressive strategy, of that there is no denying.

But at least, hopefully, well away from the talons

Of any sort of dogmatic cult following

History has far too many times before seen.


* * * *

Editor’s notes are strewn throughout;

As many contingencies accounted for as imaginable.

The Hydra of the times to come, and of humanity’s response to it,

Is akin to accurately predicting any crap roll.


* * * *

A body of work that scribed its Self through this hand.


* * * *

Very inexplicable all this.

I really do not understand any of it.

But then, again, I do not really need to, either.


* * * *

This is writing its Self one aphorism at a time.


* * * *

It is the spontaneous creative process that calls me.

Production and marketing and distribution are so monotonous.

So I throw all this wordplay out there for you to find, to investigate, or not.


* * * *

Interesting to awaken in this fashion.


* * * *

What a downer I can be.


* * * *

These are cut-to-the-chase writings

Distilled of this existence’s many meanders.

What would this life have been, had they been in hand

When the ship first set sail so many years ago?


* * * *

The pitter-patter ruminations of another Soul.


* * * *

Do I really need to keep doing this?


* * * *

The lazy man’s way.


* * * *

Hopefully, there will not be too many exact duplicates in all this chatter,

But, if they do exist, it will, indeed, take some keen reading to find them.


* * * *

Really neither for nor against, just sipping another pint of black gold,

Watching this touchy-feely, three-dimensional, illusory dream of time,

Play out its dusty theater of the absurd to whatever end Gaia allows.


* * * *

Who knows how all this ramble might be viewed

In another decade, another century, or even another millennium or so,

Assuming, of course, that it even gets past the dumpster.


* * * *

An ambiguous, indefinite, nondescript draft

For another beginning, another paradigm,

For any others who might be so-inclined.


* * * *

I am, alone.


* * * *

He came, he saw, he ambled a long-and-winding walkabout,

And at some point dove into an immense river,

From which he never emerged.


* * * *

Finally figured it out … again … and again … and again …. and again …


* * * *

The human species has overstayed its welcome in this mind.


* * * *

Another owie, oh joy.


* * * *

There are few times in any daily wander

That do not bubble up yet another ponder.


* * * *

All loving? Maybe tomorrow.


* * * *

Nope, it sure ain’t the popular song.


* * * *

Some daze you just wake up wishing you could kill somebody.


* * * *

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Them splinters are such bother.


* * * *

What a pain in the rear going through all this one-thing-after-another bother.


* * * *

Were I king, the start of a day would include,

“How few can we avoid hurting today?”


* * * *

Woke up this morning with an unequivocal disdain

For just about everyone and everything under this or any other sun.

Perhaps by moonrise it will morph into something a bit more benign, a bit more tolerant.


* * * *

Bored to tears, but too lazy to do anything about it.


* * * *

The jibber-jabber of a raving mind.


* * * *

Oh god, I’m going to cry, what bother.


* * * *

Why should I care that you feel life is treating you unfairly.

Whether or not you have it all,

Who you fondle in your own bedchamber,

What bathroom you excrete in, or where you sit on a bus.

I am just so weary of having to listen to all of you whine about it all the time.

Life is harsh for every creature great to small: Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.


* * * *

No need to go there.


* * * *

That would require a plan, and I have no need of plans.


* * * *

Mister Grumpy


* * * *

Lesson learned, maybe.


* * * *

Breaking ground here, folks.

Help out, transcend your Selves.


* * * *

I am otter.

I am whale.

I am dolphin.

I am minnow.

I am shark.


* * * *

Even during the younger years,

At the public pool in ye old Hughson,

I often relished swimming in the deep end.


* * * *

I can well attest that it is always easy to lose your way.


* * * *

If you peer long into this mind,

You will find it as simple and complex

As the mortal dream of time in eternity allows.


* * * *

Because it is amusing, that’s why.


* * * *

The Reaper has the coolest job ever.


* * * *

Words of the mystery, for the mystery, by the mystery.


* * * *

Just watching the show.


* * * *

Losing track of the diddly-squat.


* * * *

My donation to the causeless.


* * * *

I have no life, so I invented one, just like everyone else.


* * * *

Let the record show that yet another day has passed relatively anonymous,

And that I have yet again managed not to kill or rape or molest or otherwise harm

Any man or woman or child or beast not being served at my favored buffet.


* * * *

How many men use the word ‘love’

Because they fear the woman that chose them,

Or are still vainly hoping to get laid?


* * * *

Gave that rat’s ass up a long time ago.


* * * *

Then there was that time on a table up in Chico

When Russ Kalen – chiropractor, sailing colleague, friend –

Said during a session on this injury-ridden body:

Mike, I think your body fears you.


* * * *

A student of everything and nothing.


* * * *

​Hope, the four-letter H-word; not one I subscribe to as often as possible.​


* * * *

The joy of being retired, of being done with it all,

Of being in the decrepit and decaying fourth quarter of existence,

Is that you do not have to give a rat’s ass anymore,

Assuming, of course, that you ever did.


* * * *

There is something of a schizophrenic state of mind regarding all this babble.

It can be very challenging to be in the cosmos and not be of it.

There are, of course, greater forms of madness

Than that which many call divine.


* * * *

So many lifetimes in just this one.


* * * *

An endless exercise in redundancy, probably until the last wheezing breath.


* * * *

There is an audience for these many thoughts,

Just not one that is all that easy to meet and greet,

But through the happenstance of daily wander.


* * * *

I collect books and things, and they collect dust.

My man cave is a immense universe unto its Self.


* * * *

A man of many faces.


* * * *

You have your vanity, I have mine; each of us equally inconsequential.


* * * *

True believers can take all their political correctness,

And shove it back up the abyss from whence it came.


* * * *

One lifetime is more than enough.


* * * *

Yes, yes, there no doubt is some plagiarism in all this wordplay,

Some intentional, some coincidental, but relatively few and far between,

And only in order to emphasize the intentions of those who bespoke them before.


* * * *

I be a historian of sorts, but not of the truly scholarly blended brew.

Shooting from the hip has always been more my style of living and dying.


* * * *

This is my calling; to what end I neither know nor care.


* * * *

You make me laugh, but not the “with you” kind.


* * * *

Thoughts of Self and the dreamtime of this brief, mortal, illusory existence,

Both for my Self and that of any other wanderer who happenstances upon it.


* * * *

What do I want to be when I grow up? My Self, of course.


* * * *

Madman across the cosmos.


* * * *

All this technology is more and more draining, more and more irksome.

Find myself turning it all off more and more often.

How I long for Old School.


* * * *

Really very little point in we commoners paying much attention to current events and such,

Especially as we have just about absolutely no say in anything in this beyond-absurd world.


* * * *

As I am a gritty whale-dolphin-otter-shark combo pack,

No worries when it comes to any kind of rainy-floody winter.


* * * *

Wouldst thou have me spew only fluff?


* * * *

Do not nonchalantly cast this thinker or his thoughts into some forgettable nook or cranny.

Wander them, endure them, contemplate them, understand them, perchance even own them.


* * * *

Freedom is a quality of mind, get off the trail, make your own journey.


* * * *

Little projects started and stopped all the time; some finished, some not.


* * * *

Death and I are undying companions.


* * * *

Quantummeister.


* * * *

Through so many, many diverse experiences,

Much double-double-toil-and-trouble,

Many insights, much wisdom,

All for one zero-sum or another.


* * * *

I am a scientist in a most desultory way.


* * * *

Got friends in low places.

Got friends in high places.

Got friends in the in-between.

What difference, really?


* * * *

Call me Mister Solipsism.


* * * *

Call me Mister Existential.


* * * *

Call me Mister Nihilist.


* * * *

Call me Mister Void.


* * * *

Call me Mister Here Now.


* * * *

What a different world when I wore a younger man’s clothes.


* * * *

I imagine, therefore I imagine I am.


* * * *

Must have Missouri blood in me bones: I only believes it if I sees it.