CONSPIRACY THEORIST

There is, a specific type of smugness when someone within a group of like minds calls out the heretic. When group thought has totally permeated the platform, as a bastion of central opposition and knowledge to a world that is seemingly going insane -- a world is unknowable in the end. Too many possibilities. Can I prove that? Without falling into skeptical thought, not really.  Nothing can be proved without a doubt, it is a matter of the evidence collected in favour of what one believes -- or the group believes. We are all capable of that confirmation bias, even those who point out the heretic. Doubt can always be generated, with enough intelligent thought. And so as long as that persists, truth in the fact can never be absolute. And must always remain in doubt, a sort of plastic thing...

POEM: OCCULTED MAN, WAITS.

A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake. Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it, the sun dried up the lake. New green showed it's tender leaves. And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.   Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass. Images from one brief life, onto the next. I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...

POEM: YELLOW FISH

I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf, it was a good idea! It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm; for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second. This is not the only world…by far...

Poem: What Next!

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was...a good idea. These mayfly lives passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Build up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent. Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse. And in a dream old Denis said "Paint that woman there, for she is the queen of the world...and she is angered by all this...", we standing in water up to our knees...