#78: Ruky - Loky, Dose Boys No Jokey (Pets)

So You Might Take Some Comfy-Fort
From Anybody's Storm-Free Port,
Or Sue Your Wants In Lover's Court . . .
Still, Echoes In Soul's Canyon,
Can't Be Answered By Cutting Short
Your Truer Need For Some Consort . . .
And Thus The Heart Will E'er Exhort
You To A Real Companion.

The windshield wasn't muddy, nor
had it become a blur,
but there was no doubt we were hit
with lots of bits of fur.

Hair of every length and hue,
both wiry and real soft,
forced us to begin to steer
the Buggy from aloft.

We landed on our private knoll,
in a State that took its cue
from something that was modeled on
the Cincinnati Zoo.

A leopard . . . some two hundred pounds,
stood just beyond the pad.
A smaller one came walking up . . .
I guess to join his dad.

They stood up - the larger, dressed
in a fancy business suit,
while the little guy, in a pair of jeans,
was trying to look cute.

While Jo and I just sat and watched,
a dog in working clothes
strolled by the cats as if they were
just statues in repose.

About that time a horse ran up,
with ball and trunks and shoes . . .
with the flair of Michael Jordan, he
palmed the ball with hooves.

The back of his satin jacket read,
in bright embroidery . . .
a name, "The Geldings," exactly like
a team of the NBA.

The longer we sat, the more we saw.
We never ventured out,
while all the animals made their way,
living and walking about.

Then finally, we got the chance to see
a thing, so freaky weird,
I rubbed my eyes real hard to make
quite sure that they were cleared.

Now picture this, a Saint Bernard
in golfer's shirt and shorts,
and on a leash, right by his side,
a naked man cavorts . . .

"That's it!" Jo-Mima leapt, I think,
intending then, to save,
his fellow man from something he
interpreted as grave.

And fifty different animals then
turned 'round to look at Jo,
while the naked man just barked at us,
while jumping to and fro.

"Jo," I kind of whispered, "I think
it might be time to leave.
There's gotta be a leash law here
for guys like you and me."

In a moment, though, I realized
that visitors weren't new.
They turned away as if they'd seen
our kind a time or two.

So I stepped up to stand by Jo.
We both surveyed the scene.
"What the hell is this about,
and what the heck's it mean?"

We started taking note of all
the creatures that were there,
now noticing their differences,
as well as all they shared.

Their clothing didn't indicate
their likelihood to smile,
but those that carried leashes seemed
to have so much less guile.

Most of those had seemed to train
some barking, human form.
There were some cats and dogs, for sure,
but humans were the norm.

A couple of times, we chanced to see
a really depressed dude,
just talking to himself, and apt
to come off pretty rude.

Jo-Mima looked at me and laughed,
"Pets are people too" . . .
And the Buggy started up as if
Jo's joke had been the clue.

"What the hell?" I asked, though we
had thought in unison.
"Don't tell me that this State is based
on pets that are like men!

"I'm not sure," Jo-Mima mused,
"exactly how it works,
but I can tell by looking 'round
that pets can sure be jerks."

"But actually," I butted in,
"these pets, with pets in tow,
aren't anything like the kind of pets
that we have come to know.

And yes, they can be jerks, it seems,
but I suggest that when
we see them acting more like jerks,
we see them more like men."

The Buggy just kept on sputtering.
We knew we neared the core
of what this State was trying to say,
and what it held in store.

"So man's another animal, like
any old cat or dog,"
Jo-Mima started figuring in
his wiser monologue.

"It matters not, the form of life . . .
and so, we've seen it come
in the widest variations, and
regardless where it's from . . .

it seems to get much better when
it shares it's living with
some sort of loving, pet-like thing.
I guess it's like a gift.

It's like the lives of lonely ones
are lived more happily
when they have a loving pet
to keep them company."

There wasn't any lightning bolt,
or thundering applause . . .
the Buggy simply roared to life,
the door popped up like jaws.

We never even figured out
what word we might have coughed
that got us back into our seats,
and ready to take off.

#79: That Old Cliff - Lover's Jump (Commitment)

Hey, Don't Think For Even A Minute
You Know The Game And How To Win It,
Just Because You've Always Been "It,"
Or Rewarded For Your Passion.
Pet The Cat, But You Won't Skin It.
Drink The Bottle, But You Can't Spin It.
Sit In The Gutter, Or In The Senate,
You Don't Get Points For Fashion.
There's Circumstance, And You Might Pin It
Down, Or Test Your Blood And Thin It
Out, But Life, And Choices In It
Are Sometimes Karma's Ration!

There were other States that brought us to
the fields of games and goals.
Other States had thrown us out
in front of target holes . . .

but, we stepped from the Car this time
to look beyond our reach,
at new-mown fields, and bales of straw,
with lessons they might teach.

"Geemanee, Christmas, don't tell me,"
I yelled to any ears,
"that we're supposed to walk out there!
Hey, that'll take us years!"

Just then, without much warning,
something kind of plopped . . .
we turned around to see where bows
with arrows had been dropped.

We quickly swirled, and figured that
the gift was our travail.
And sure enough, we saw bull's-eyes
stuck to every bale.

There didn't seem much threat to us.
There wasn't any noise.
We decided that we'd just as well
pretend we're Injun boys.

So, weapons were selected, and
we flipped a coin to start.
I called "heads," and heads it was,
though tails are just as smart.

I reached into the arrow cache,
and lifted up a shaft . . .
and Jo and I looked out upon
the bull's-eyed bales and laughed.

Like dots off in the distance, they
looked many miles away.
"It's a shot, but it's impossible,"
was all that Jo could say.

We barely saw five targets, there,
away off to the West,
and though I shot with pluck and verve,
just close would be my best.

I retrieved another arrow while
Jo-Mima took his aim.
Taking turns, we shot ten times,
once each at each round frame.

I remember Jo was sputtering when
one arrow, he let go:
"I just got the strangest sense . . .
that I might like this bow."

Now, neither one of us has e'er
given the bow its due,
but both of us had felt that we
were shooting straight and true.

So many of the tasks that we
had managed on this trip
were so far down the weird road, that
we just to let her rip!

And, looking back, I wouldn't say
that it was aim we took.
We pointed arrows, and let them fly
each time the bow string shook.

Ten arrows had been shot, and we
took bows in arms to head
into the field to check our aim.
We knew it wasn't dead.

It surprised us even more to find,
as that first target loomed,
that they were separated more
than we could have assumed.

The first one had a tiny phrase
printed mid-bull's-eye.
Too small for us to aim to read,
the words were, "Do Or Die."

And amazingly, Jo-Mima's shot
had stuck there, pretty close,
to the arrow I had shot, per chance,
a bull's-eye, on the nose.

We walked away from that bale then,
toward the next in line,
and didn't stop for sensing of
commitment at that time.

The piece of painted plastic stretched,
and glued to that next bale,
pronounced an embossed slogan, all
across its center wale.

"To One And Only One," it read,
and, yes, our arrows struck
again around the center, though,
again it was pure luck.

As we approached the next straw bale,
much further, though it was,
we saw our arrows occupied
the space the bull's-eye does.

And painted over the circles in
a font, real small, but nice,
we read a simple, single word . . .
that word was, "Sacrifice."

Our marksmanship did shock us, but
far less thoroughly,
than a moment's sense of just how strange
our actions came to be.

Both Jo and I began to hug
the thin curves of our bows.
Both of us caressed the strings,
for reasons no one knows.

All at once, Jo yelped and thrust
his weapon to the ground.
Embarrassed at the scene I'd made,
I stopped and looked around.

We stood alone, upon that field,
midst Cupid's favorite game.
For all our weird sensations, though,
all else remained the same.

I spoke out to the universe,
"So, what's up with this place?
We ain't no archery buffs, although
we're lucky in this case.

And our senses of devotion are
severely compromised.
It's either that, or we're in need
of being analyzed.

I mean, I'll take emotion's call.
I'll play a willing fool.
But I don't like the game that leaves
me falling for a tool."

And then, on cue, and in response
to my resigning plea,
the thunder of the Voice approached
to speak to Jo and me.

"It's hard to give you credit for
getting this one right,
but your shooting and your searching
convinces me you might.

And just as much because this State's
a lesson you can't miss,
I'm more disposed to lend a hand . . .
so give your ear to this!

Commitment, Love and Loyalty . . .
these things, while intertwined,
aren't qualities, nor absolutes,
nor treasures you can find.

These blessed things are, simply put,
targets for man's aim . . .
but neither does that mean that they
are just some sort of game.

Were you to walk on further out
you'd find the arrows teach
that Piety and Faith are, too,
targets you shoot to reach.

It turns out that the irony of
these passions you would court,
is that they come to be and grow
when practiced as a sport.

Training, trying, working, vying . . .
you thus, must set your eye
upon the goal you seek to meet . . .
and want to do or die.

Like winning the ultra-marathon,
or life-long tournament,
you may achieve no more than you
practiced your intent.

Like ripples on the water's face,
it grows in strength and bond,
only once you've tossed a stone
out into that pond . . .

and, yes, they shall return to you,
responding to your will,
but only as the ripples in
the pond grow larger, still . . .

and only change the life that finds
their habit in its soul . . .
and only finds that habit when
they've started as a goal."

The silence grew around us, as
so many times before,
the Voice's echo drifted off,
like fog from off a moor.

"Well, damn," Jo-Mima aired complaint,
"you give me some debate
that Voice's messages don't get
more cryptic with each State.

I mean, it sounded like the answer we
are s'posed to find in here,
is love and loyalty aren't much more
than things we try to steer . . .

like all we do is grab a gun,
or something we can shoot,
and try our best to take good aim,
and hope it isn't moot."

"And that's exactly what it is,"
the Voice's boom returned.
"Stop thinking with your prejudice,
and you might even learn.

You cannot force your feelings to
go off this way or that.
Your heart won't take an oath because
your mind's an autocrat.

'Practice' is the word you seek,
and, yes, the tool you need,
to help you persevere at love's
intention and its deed."

The Voice's roar abruptly stilled.
The Buggy cranked and whirred.
Jo and I got back inside,
as our surroundings blurred.

#80: It's Better, By Far, To Have Been Thar (Travel)

So, Open Up Your Syllabee,
And Turn To Chapter Fifty-Three.
It's Time For Some Geography.
Before A Fellow Passes
This Course In All Philosophy,
He's Got To Grasp Schenectady,
And Understand That Tennessee
Ain't Just For Horses's Asses.
But, Don't It Strike You Strange To See
That Booking Passage Is To Thee
What A Passage In A Book Can't Be,
As Being There Surpasses . . .
Like Printed Notes, In Any Key,
Might Blare Like Gabby's Brasses.

So the next sojourn was one of those
that started with the map
I guess you might say, figuratively,
predicting some new trap.

A lot of radial lines were drawn
with equal arrow points
at both, the inside circle and,
the outside paper joints.

Of course, we didn't understand,
until the trip was done,
those arrows were to symbolize
that both ways equal one.

Through drapes of many colors, we
just knew the Buggy'd find
a direction through the myriad
of cut and patch design.

So, we came to rest atop the hill
that we'd so often found,
but this time peopled with a crowd
all dressed in colored gowns.

Then, Jo and I got out to greet
the bright community.
But it was just as well they took
no count of Jo and me.

They spoke a thousand languages,
and nary a single word
was recognized, though it was clear,
they all knew what they heard.

Reflected in each face, we thought,
we saw enlightenment.
They seemed to be conveying more
than message and intent.

It was Jo who noticed first that each,
even before he spoke,
showed a passport, which he pulled
from 'neath his colored cloak.

"It's like they know all languages,"
Jo-Mima then inferred,
"as long as passport protocol
is courteously observed."

And then, I think, Jo-Mima asked
some other questions, and
stood there, trying to figure out
what's up in language land.

However, my attentions were
now tuned to Asians taught
by Portuguese, and I didn't catch
Jo-Mima's total thought.

A few words still came clear to me
in questions that he formed,
"They're all quite multi-lingual, or
some travel is their norm."

At first I thought Jo-Mima's words
were spoken very well,
but I wondered, as the crowd did fade,
might he have cast a spell?

Amidst their conversations, we
watched people disappear.
They faded while still talking, which
looked really very queer.

We might have harbored some concern,
had not the Buggy then
revved up to indicate Jo's words
could have the proper spin.

We took our seats and propped our feet,
expecting to take off
when the Voice broke in to offer us
the usual, helpful scoff.

"It never ceases to amaze me, boys,
but you can find a way
of missing most the meaning while
you hit on what to say.

The message of this State might be,
just as Jo describes,
'perspective,' like the kind that comes
from meeting different tribes.

A man can study cultures, and
learn language from a book,
and read about the cities that
history's armies took.

And all of that provides a man
with learning, pretty fair,
but perspective only comes to him
who's chanced to being there.

Your photos show the pyramids
are tombs and ancient graves . . .
but ask the man who's awed beside
the work of genius slaves.

Your pictures show the wailing wall
is stone laid down with care,
but pictures cannot show you that
it's really made of prayer.

The streets of San Francisco can
be captured on TV,
until you ride the cable cars
from Nob Hill to the sea.

So, all your understanding and
compassion for man's kind
has more to do with where you've been
than what's inside your mind.

Going there and sitting with
the people of a place
will give a man a confidence
that study cannot grace.

Of course, you boys were hardly my
most discerning wards . . .
at least you've put some mileage on
your shoes and tired Fords.

You've bought your share of tickets, and
you've stayed in some motels.
You'll taste the local offering,
in spite of how it smells.

So, credit I must give you, now,
and it's the reason why
you might arrive as strangers, but,
as friends, you say 'goodbye'."

#81: You're Only As Gold As You Think You Ore (Aging)

So, Add Up Your Experience,
Keep A Log Of Where And Whence,
Count Your Wrinkles And Your Dents,
And Tabulate Your Age . . .
But That Won't Save You From Advents
Of Testing All The Consequence
That Keeps You Riding On The Fence,
And Turning A New Page . . .
As If Your Memories And Their Hints
Of How To Tackle Life's Events
Will Always Offer Winner's Glints
At Any Future Stage.

No sooner had we left the pad
than tons of life debris
began to slap the windshield, and . . .
so thick we couldn't see.

Crutches, walkers, adjustable beds . . .
bottles of colored pills,
came rolling toward us, all stacked up
on chairs with spokes and wheels.

And then, we thought that we could sense
the Buggy out of juice.
The hum began to quiet, and
the door was shaking loose.

And as we gasped for dearest life,
the Buggy finally stalled.
We looked around and saw a scene
that left us both appalled.

I turned to Jo and said, "You know . . .
this place could make us ill.
It makes me feel like we might need
a shot or painful pill."

The Buggy door then wobbled some,
and fell right off its hinge.
We stood and looked around at sights
that made us wince and cringe.

Gnarly trees, with limbs hung low,
and lots of wrinkled beasts,
talked among themselves as though
we mattered not the least.

In seconds, it was clear to us,
that everything was old.
So what medicinal message might
a State like this one hold?

And about that time, we noticed more
the spirit of these troops,
as wrinkled as they might have been,
they seemed to jump through hoops.

They danced and joked, and laughed and sang,
and seemingly without
all the fear and angst we hear
old age is all about.

We overheard three wolves that joked . . .
two were 90 years . . .
the third just laughed, as 93,
at his much younger peers.

And a lion, looking friendly through
his very well-groomed mane,
grinned at us and roared, "Hello,"
and balanced on his cane.

"Well, you must be ol' Hiram's pals,"
he caught us both off guard,
by talking with the diction of
a student from Harv-Yard.

He strolled right up in front of us,
on weakened, clawless feet.
"Who's Hiram?" Jo asked, trembling at
the fact he still had teeth.

"Hiram!" the lion laughed out loud . . .
a roar that shook the ground,
"He's the Voice that's helping you . . .
and guiding you around.

He's best of all the Guides who teach
the tour through Level 2.
I had a job like his until
my retirement came through.

I guess it was a month ago
that he dropped by to say
some of us might see you boys
while on your trip foray.

You know, it's not my business, but
ol' Hiram knows I'm apt
to give you voyagers helping hands
before your brains get zapped.

Besides, it keeps me thinking, and . . ."
he paused and did a hop,
"I miss the game and challenge, and
don't think I've lost my chop . . .

It keeps me thinking," he went on,
"and even more than that,
it's lots more fun to hold one's towels
while tossing in one's hat.

You know, the weirdest thing I've seen
about one's getting on . . .
in life, that is, and this applies
to all men that I've known . . .

is that you never actually feel
as if your near an end,
until you can't perform those things
on which some ends depend.

That is, until you cannot walk,
you often try to run.
Until it's clear you've finally lost,
you're still convinced you've won.

It takes some major stumbles at
the business game you play,
before you recognize that you
already had your day.

Young girls may call you dirty and old,
because you act and think
you'll get the chance to dance with them,
and so you give a wink.

You'd have to stare at mirrors 'til
you'd finally recognize
you're looking somewhat older than
all their other guys.

Young bucks will say you've moved beyond
the hill and battlefield
but only 'cause they notice that
you ain't about to yield.

You're like a stove that's staying hot
because you still got heat,
and not because you still know how
to fix what's good to eat.

You're like a car that's waiting on
some oily tune-up floor,
and revving out of habit, though
you can't drive out the door.

You're like an older suitcase that
still has its locks and grips,
and doesn't know that it takes more
to make those modern trips.

And all this self-hypnosis helps
to keep you at a pace
that makes you think you're still dressed out,
and seeded in the race.

Aging has a way, you know,
of making futures look
like every step you've planned to take
is still there to be took.

And that's about the story of
this wrinkled up ol' State . . .
that aging ain't a moment's more
than living slightly late.

The balance usually tends to be
something like a dream . . .
partly who you think you were,
and partly what you seem.

That is, you measure out your life,
but you don't get to feel
like any moment isn't more
than any other, real."

"Hold it," Jo-Mima just yelled out,
no effort spent to try
to interject with some respect
of wave, or wink of eye.

"All I've heard is riddles, now . . .
and damn, they don't make sense!
If aging isn't negative, well,
then why all this pretense?

It seems to me that when we grow
too old to do our part,
the world just kicks us to the side
just like it has no heart.

And I can tell when I meet up
with oldsters that are grown . . .
hell, they've got some talents that
this world ain't ever known!"

The rumbling sound that gripped us then,
familiar as can be,
put smiling looks on all the mugs
of all our company.

The lion started laughing at
the volume of the sound.
Other creatures turned and smiled,
and never looked around.

"Well, my friends, have you had fun
leading them astray?"
"Now, why would we do that to you?"
The lion seemed to play.

Well, it turns out, that Jo and I
were treated to more tales.
I guess not every voyager meets
retired Guides themselves.

The Voice, and all the creature there,
took a turn to dredge
up stories of how aging won't
rob you of your edge.

By the time we heard the Buggy's hum,
I think its revving had
awaken more than resting old . . .
like maybe all the dead.

We left there with a lesson that
is pretty hard to teach . . .
that age is not the thing that puts
objectives out of reach . . .

that age is like the color of
your hair, or size of nose,
it's simply something you must count
into the course you chose.

And that means that there's irony,
and even riddled days,
when you can try to do some things
without the means and ways.

Mostly, goals changed not at all,
though many seemed more tame . . .
less physical than days when youth
was added to the game.

So Jo and I just took our seats . . .
the Buggy seemed renewed.
We lifted off, while waving back
at all those busy dudes.

#82: A Flurry Of Worry Can Leave You Snowbound (Anxiety)

You Can Take Some Time To Dream
About The Things That Make You Scream,
And Sure Enough, You'll Find They Seem
Much Simpler To Control . . .
As Long As You Can Keep Your Beam
Shining In Their Eyes, They Deem
It Fitting Not To Loose Their Stream
Of Horrors On Your Soul.
The Trouble Is - That Now Your Team
Can't Make It To The Goal.

So, anyone who reads this book
might try, but can't refute,
the crash-bang-boom we suffered through
on more than one commute.

And though some signs surprised us, not
a one was weirder than
a straw man floating through the air . . .
this billboard in his hand.

"Oh ye traveler, make your way
through all the fearsome, farce-foray,
too spooked to move, too scared to stay,
the darkness smothers you!

Oh ye traveler, destiny bent,
if darkness can't, your speed, prevent,
then check your pockets for a cent.
And will you ever make the rent?
Have you lost your back-up tent?
And all your savings have been spent,
while bills are coming due.

Oh ye traveler, who'd endure
disease for which there is no cure,
water, food and air, impure,
and seat belts don't keep you secure
from threats you face upon this tour.
Inside, you know it's true.

Your only option is to sweat,
and think a lot about the threat,
and never take the time to let
your mental gears now grasp and get
a picture of what causes fret,
and why it chases you.

If you don't keep your brain employed
with feelings that are paranoid,
then maybe you might well avoid
the symbols that, though not enjoyed,
and permitting you to stay annoyed,
pretend to be a clue.

Hell, for all you know, you might
get to thinking that you're right,
and confidently trust your sight
enough to think you can decide
what path is good for you.

And you should know that gods are tough
on anyone who thinks he's tough,
believing that he knows enough
to judge a thing or two."

The sign ran on, though I forget
the rest of what it said.
I do recall that Jo got pissed,
and even though we sped . . .

right on past that scarecrow dude,
Jo-Mima chose to yell,
"We ain't worried about your signs.
Shove 'em, and go to Hell!"

And, like I said, we hadn't slowed,
but we felt, just the same,
a little surge of energy
after Jo-Mima's scream.

"You know," I said to my old friend,
"I think your words came out
exactly as we needed them.
Those signs were all about . . .

the reasons for our worries, and
the things we don't achieve,
whenever we start to worrying
and fail, then, to believe."

At that the sky began to clear.
The overcast gave way
to bluer skies, that told us we
had understood okay . . .

the message of the scarecrow's signs.
And then, still running late,
we never slowed, but headed on
toward another State.

#83: The Prize Lies Between Two Guise (Religion Vs Science)

So, You Try And Build Yourself A Picture,
A Concept Of The World's First Fixer,
The Dude Whose Magic Made The Mixture . . .
Of All That You See Here.
Think Of It As Just A Fixture . . .
A Seed Sprung Up From Some Elixir.
And It Don't Give A Wit Or Lick, Sir,
For Longa Deadski, Or Stilla Quickster . . .
They, Having Fled In Fear.

The Phil-Mobile eventually stopped,
and we were finally thrown
into the strangest landscape that
our journey'd ever shown.

Instead of a hill and grassy plain,
our usual landing sight,
we found a tiny chair and bench,
with sharply focused light.

A little old man, bent over at
a glass that magnified
his fingers fumbling with a stand,
and something that he tried . . .

his best to form, despite the lack
of tools which might have done
a better job of reaching ends
toward which he had begun.

It looked to be a diamond, but,
it hardly had a shine.
He chipped and buffed and polished it . . .
we guessed, with some design.

He never noticed when we walked
around to get a look
at who he was, and what he did . . .
and efforts that he took.

I tried to get a look at him,
to see what he might say,
but his intent was far too strong
for him to look our way.

So then, I knelt to table height,
in vain to see his face.
I saw the tiny diamond move,
like nothing commonplace.

He polished it, and seemingly,
as if all on its own,
it twisted, and it altered shape,
to his resigning groan.

He'd study it for a period of time,
and then he'd chip again.
The rock would move and modify
each time that he'd begin.

And this went on for hours, while
not one thing in the room
gave any indication of
more purpose to presume.

At some point, we determined, based,
on its response to him,
the diamond was a precious stone . . .
no ordinary gem.

It didn't show emotions, or
anything quite so weird,
but it gave us both the sense that it
was more than it appeared.

Very much like a puzzle from
some alien universe,
it defied the little man's attempts,
some secret to coerce.

Then, all at once a brilliant light
shot out and hit the man.
He sat up straight for a second or two,
and then leaned in again.

It must have been revealing like
a searing laser beam,
because the man's expression changed
into a knowing gleam.

For several minutes, he gave his work
renewed intensity,
trying to cut the diamond to
some jewel, and perfectly.

"Now, that seems pretty interesting,"
I chose that time to speak.
And though he might have heard me,
he never took a peek.

Jo looked startled at how loud
my voice had sounded there.
We realized the little man's work
did not disturb the air.

"To what were you referring, Bo?"
Jo-Mima whispered then.
"His reaction to that laser beam.
That could have done us in?"

"Well, yes," I said, "it hit him, and
it couldn't be too hot.
He would be burned between the eyes,
and clearly, he is not."

So, another quiet hour passed,
without the slightest sound.
Our subject never blinked or stretched,
or even looked around.

"There must be something more to this
than making pretty stones . . ."
Jo-Mima always was the first
to solve the toughest koans.

"Or, maybe he's a jeweler in
a back room at a mall . . .
or maybe making weapons, or
not even real at all."

Jo concluded, "One thing's clear,
this old dude can't abide
anything but a perfect gem
to see him satisfied."

I studied the man another while,
and knew that Jo was right.
The diamond changed, spit in his face,
and stung him with its light.

It was almost like he reveled in
every move it made,
adjusting his approach while his
goal would not be swayed.

Jo-Mima suggested something then
that really sounded great . . .
"It's like communication, and
it's like they can relate."

That room was small, and yes, of course,
the Buggy just sat there.
And we had not yet found the key . . .
the Buggy did not stir.

It seemed no matter how we might
study that little man,
we'd never likely figure out,
or understand his plan.

My patience with our progress was
beginning to wear thin.
I went to tap his shoulder, but
Jo-Mima spoke again.

"Check it out," he nearly yelled
which called my focus to
another vision opening that
allowed us to see through . . .

the wall that stood behind our dude,
to where we both could see
the scene we had been studying,
mirrored perfectly.

A little old man with tossled hair,
exactly like the one
we'd observed for hours now,
begged comparison.

At first, we said, "reflection," but,
despite its rarity,
the new dimension's opening
blurred not our clarity.

Prepared for weird, we studied more,
and noticed that this face
was different from the dude that we
observed in former space.

Instead of all absorption in
his work, with spurts of glee,
the new guy hardly worked at all,
but smiled, incessantly.

In place of solemn silence, he
was loud and boisterous.
He was yelling out at everyone . . .
though that was only us.

"The pearl of truth and wisdom is . . .
the pearl of all that be . . .
the truth, it's mine, I own it, and
I know it sets me free."

The words were changing slightly, but
the message stayed the same.
He shouted to the rafters that
he'd figured out the game.

The other thing we noticed was,
the closer that we looked . . .
the stone propped up before him was
the one that our dude worked.

And every time the first guy would
refine a single spot,
the stone in front of screamer-dude
mirrored every dot.

The new guy sort of bothered me . . .
he never looked to know
the meaning of the stone that he
enjoyed, so much, to show.

"Well maybe it's a blessing," I
then gestured Jo to see,
"at least the new guy ain't been hit
with laser beamery.

Damn, I just can't figure this . . .
the moment I've a clue
as to anything our dude's about,
there's something weird and new.

Jewelers, diamonds . . . perfect pearls,
this puzzle's so complex.
One dude studies, all obsessed . . .
the other screams, just hexed."

A long time later, we recognized
how far off we were,
but the Voice returned and mercifully,
decided to confer . . .

"There's always grades for trying, boys,
though you must win or fail.
And it appears, if I don't help,
you'll never end this tale.

I like this State. It's always fun,
as any human tries
to figure out the differences
between these little guys.

I admit, it might be difficult . . .
this mirror-contrast State
compares competing views of life . . .
no normal scale of fate.

You see, the first guy, Science.
He's seeking perfect truth.
The second dude's a religious man,
and opposite the sleuth.

And once you see their differences,
you'll quickly understand
the actions and perspectives in
the lives of two such men.

The first will seek solutions to
the questions of the 'How.'
The other doesn't seek at all,
but only likes to vow.

The first guy loves discovery's pain,
when stung by some new light.
It sets him on a better course,
and helps him get it right . . .

while information misses those,
content in spouting out.
New data only makes him mad,
and tends to make him doubt.

And neither one seeks righteousness.
The first guy pokes and jabs,
to gain some little insight on
the real Creator's labs . . .

while, ironically, the other fails
to hear when Heaven calls . . .
addicted to his fables, he
denies real miracles.

The lessons should be obvious
to iron-knees like you,
experienced in the begging of
a morsel of the true.

The one who screams the loudest on
possession of the facts
may be the one ignoring most
the methods truth exacts.

And, often it's the case the view
that can admit no wrong
sounds more like it might be real
since it's rehearsed so long.

Remember that the whole truth's not
possessed by any man.
Those who swear they have no doubts
deserve a careful scan.

And those who seek the truth despite
discomfort it might bring,
will be prepared to fully greet
creation's true wellspring.

Now go your way, adventurers . . .
before I help too much.
Eventually, you'll find that you
must feel with your own touch."

There was something sort of weird about
the Voice's exit sound,
but we had learned to recognize
when it was not around.

And Jo and I just kind of shrugged,
and simply turned about,
to stand before a Phil-mobile
that hummed and purred, full-out.

We took our seats and shuffled through
the cards upon the floor.
The windshield blurred with images.
Jo-Mima shut the door.

#84: Fly It Or Diet -- If You Buy It, We'll Try It (Business)

(Sighn Post 6)

Ply Your Trade, Or Trade Your Honor,
Awaiting Gifts Dropped Off By Donner . . .
Either Way, You're Still A Goner . . .
Blitzen Stole The Sleigh.
Your Whole Damn Season Is A Boner.
Your Business Falls To Some New Owner . . .
Hell, Life, Itself, Is Just A Lowner.
Don't Be Sad Today!
Follow Rules, Or Write Some New Ones.
Life Is More Than Quarks And Gluons.
Business Shows The Fakes And True Ones . . .
So, Get Out There And Play!
Or:
Yes, It's Commerce,
But It Could Be Much Worse.

Once, between a couple of States,
we hit a floating rag.
It turned out that it was a huge
sombrero and price tag.

It hung up on the windshield, and,
though soon blew from the trim,
we had the chance to read what it
had printed on its brim:

"Arrows point, but do not guide us.
Gold and glory burn inside us . . .
but it's fear that tries to ride us
when we let it choose.

Pitiless, like fruits, they dried us
when we advertised like prideless
beasts locked up and fed by Midas . . .
in cagey, city zoos.

Count your money, bind and store it.
Buy yourself a Porsche, and floor it.
Won't your enemies adore it . . .
on its maiden cruise?

Your servant's ready when you call her.
She'll bring fresh meat to your altar.
And while the lambs await the slaughter,
the pigs wash up for stews.

It's commerce and you learned to grow it . . .
to fail, to cheat, and never show it . . .
to bully, bash, berate or blow it,
'ore the client sues.

So, maybe it's some nasty puzzle . . .
the dog that eats the dog will muzzle
stronger ones, before they guzzle
nectar and the juice.

Though product, hype and distribution
will promote the institution,
lest a union resolution
plays a striking blues.

So, in your final presentation,
don't you get this bad sensation . . .
your price and pants . . . they took up station,
down around your shoes?

And then, perhaps, it might annoy you,
as you give up hope and joy you
thought you had . . . they now employ you . . .
things you can't refuse.

And now you find yourself defiant,
'midst the would-be self-reliant.
You piss on every fiscal hydrant
downtown dogs peruse.

You laugh at warnings from some zapper,
scribbled in some common crapper . . .
it says your money is the trapper . . .
it's sticky, and it glues . . .

your very soul to your collection
of some things, at the select-shun
of your spirit and direction.
Acquisition skews . . .

you more to getting than to doing,
more to having than pursuing,
less to loving than to wooing
the whore of revenues.

But, rules are man's . . . and dice are Heaven's.
You're on "Go," but all your revvin's . . .
wasted. Even rolling sevens . . .
will only help you lose.

So, it's theirs, who fed and fried us . . .
bought and paid, and now abide us,
that will die, and therefore, lie dust,
these gory avenues.

The gun goes off, the period's started.
The quarterback had only farted,
but the team thought he imparted
some secret, coded cues.

And after all, it's only playing.
Business isn't more than baying
at the moons and stars we're praying
can help us light our fuse."

#85: It Ain't No Quiz That Biz Is Fizz (Consumerism)

Oh, You Might Find Your Perfect Fit
Down In Filene's Fashion Pit . . .
That Don't Mean You're Loving It . . .
The Way You Wind Up Clad.
Just Like Me, You Buy And Split,
And Back Out On The Street, You Get
Your First Good Look, And Spit That It . . .
Was Cooler In The Ad.

After the hat, I argued some,
the case for business good,
but whatever we were landing on . . .
some structure of fake wood . . .

broke apart, and Jo and I
fell into a cellar . . .
where throngs of people shopped atop
a light-year-sized propeller.

It must have had a thousand blades . . .
and each one went for miles,
from start to tip, with thousands of
shoppers wearing smiles.

Well, by this time, now veterans of
bizarreness of this tour . . .
without so much as modest shock,
we set out to explore.

We started walking out one blade
'tween endless rows of stores.
Women's clothing hung from all
the windows and the doors.

We turned and chose another blade
that wasn't just for girls,
and there we previewed every style
of shoe from many worlds.

"Hey, Jo-Mima," I addressed my friend,
"do these propellers seem
to be laid out like halls in malls,
where each one has a theme?"

And it turned out that I was right,
'cause later, when we found
the legend for the entire place,
its scope could well astound!

Apparel and garments of every type,
and not just Earthly clothes . . .
styles from every universe got
their own displays and shows.

There was furniture and appliances
china and candlesticks . . .
picture frames, and crocks and glass . . .
guitars, and climbing picks.

There were cars and planes and snowmobiles,
and yachts and toilet bowls . . .
houses, tents and office sweets . . .
flowers and fishing poles.

There was art, and there were paintings.
There were covers for new books.
There were forms for forms and minute things
to hang on minute hooks.

There were tapestries and tap-dance shoes,
and songs for dancing bears.
There were new designs for circles . . .
and some were even squares.

The stuff went on forever, and
at some point on a blade,
a sample could be found of one
of everything that's made.

But the thing that really got us was
the people that we saw,
pushing and shoving each other in
a sort of shoppers' brawl.

Their intensity surprised us, but
'twas stranger still, we thought,
that near as we could make it out,
the stuff was never bought.

And about that time, the sky turned bright.
We saw the sun intrude,
and the indoor mall florescence was
thereupon subdued.

And, of course, that's when we saw the shaft,
a thousand miles away . . .
it was wider than a mountain, and
of solid gold, I'd say.

It was Jo that sometime later, thought
it wasn't day for night.
The sun had not come up, but we
rotated to the right.

We spent some time there pondering
the evidence all about . . .
but all it's scope and grandeur seemed
too much to figure out.

"Well, first we find a Commerce Sign
of warnings and harsh rules,"
Jo-Mima started in to use
his analyzing tools.

"And then weak points in the logic broke,
and we wound up down here,
watching worlds of people shop
without the first cashier."

Well, lots of times, of course, we found
the password for a State
beyond our grasp, had not the Voice
seen to capitulate.

We'd otherwise, be likely stuck
way back at journey's start . . .
but this might be a time that we
found that message heart.

We started checking out parts of
the shoe blade's biggest store,
watching people pick through stuff
they ultimately ignore.

And Jo was the first to notice that
each shoe they laid back down
was inspected by an employee
connected to the ground . . .

with a hose attached about his waist,
and passing through the floor,
where energy discharges seemed
to light the entire store.

A moment passed, and from a shoot
that fed one counter's end,
a brand new style of shoe came forth . . .
and shoppers would descend.

And the whole process seemed fluid.
A shopper would not buy . . .
which energized the entire place
to give another try.

And later, we discovered that
each shop on every blade
connected all employees to
this energy brigade.

And the employees and owners may
have all been like robots,
but it seemed, on breaks, they too became
non-buying propeller-nauts.

We never saw it, but later learned,
the transferred energy
ran beneath the stores, back to
the gold shaft's perigee.

And so, correctly, we surmised
the spark of sales unmade
was the energy that turned the fan
that held a thousand blades.

"What we're seeing happen here,"
I thought out loud to Jo,
"is not the State of commerce, or,
we'd see some money flow.

You've got this Sign of warnings that's
above a fan, hot-wound
by people only looking for
some coolness never found."

"And so, that means," Jo-Mima said,
"whatever business is,
it's made up less by sizzling sales
than by the market's fizz."

And then, as if we were beamed up,
exactly like Star Trek,
we found ourselves again upon
the upper business deck.

"I know that you got something right,"
I looked at Jo and said.
He laughed when he responded it
was not just top-of-head.

We saw the Buggy sitting there,
warm, but not turned on . . .
but Jo-Mima wasn't finished with
conclusions he had drawn.

"The thing I think we witnessed in
that product lyceum,
is currency ain't what's driving things . . .
that's just the medium.

At first I thought it might be greed,
the way those people were
picking through those items like
there's so much they prefer.

But later on, the notion struck,
it ain't about what's bought.
It's creating things that's driving biz . . .
all based on what is sought.

So we watched the stores get energized,
and thereby juice the blade,
based upon NOT things they sold,
but stuff they wanted made."

And with every word Jo uttered then,
the Buggy revved some more,
and though it seemed quite ready to fly,
we couldn't unlock the door.

And about then Jo concluded, "It . . .
ain't what we put cash in . . .
the whole damn place is driven by
nothing more than fashion."

And, BOOM! That door popped up so fast,
it almost knocked me down.
Jo was lucky to grab his seat
before we left the ground.

And so, I guess you'd have to say,
Jo-Mima set us free
of a State I thought we'd never learn
the inner mystery.

And no, the Voice was silent through
our whole propeller stay . . .
but that was not the last time we
would need it's help that day!

#86: Measure Meants Can Mess Your Sense! ("Yardsticks")

You Might Feel You've Been Indicted,
Pigeonholed, Pecked Or Plighted . . .
But Don't Go Gettin' All Excited . . .
It's All For Love Of Sport.
We Need To Know Who-All's Been Cited
The Best, The Worst, The Dazed And Knighted . . .
And Leave The Surfing Serfs United
In Somebody Else's Court.
And Lucky For Us, The Trip Was Short!

Not all States were lessons of pain.
Some States we just blew through.
I might ease the reader's worries by
recounting one or two.

Well, once, the Buggy stopped and we
could see our hill was gone.
We saw a billion paper shreds
instead of normal lawn.

There wasn't any grass or trees.
There wasn't any life.
There was just this giant readout shaped
much like a giant knife.

Then numbers would go scrolling up,
and then go in reverse . . .
and either way, they didn't appear
the better or the worse.

I guess it was Jo-Mima . . . saw,
like distant bombs and flack,
the sky lit up with the numbers' rise,
and dimmed when they fell back.

And though we made quick work of it,
I'm still not really sure
how we came to recognize
what that State stood for.

At some point, while we watched the scroll,
Jo-Mima hit the core . . .
that money is a counting tool,
and really, not much more!

I think the saber shape was there
to teach us something more,
but since we'd got the gist of it,
we heard the Buggy roar.

Another time, I can recall,
though this one kind-of fades,
we found ourselves in classrooms, stacked
with papers topped with grades.

It turns out that the purpose of
that State, we soon discerned,
was "As" and "Bs" are measures of
not what a man has learned . . .

but not more than a system which
is used to herd us forth
into corrals that then permit
some stranger's brand of worth.

We laughed, if I remember right,
at how a State might claim
a lesson for life might be that we
could play at such a game.

Still, I guess we got ourselves
back out and on the road,
or we'd still be there, trying to find
some magic, secret code.

We didn't need a grade to say
we passed that crazy test.
We made our exit . . . that alone
confirmed we were the best.

#87: Don't Blame Me, My Instrument Did It (Music)

It Gets You Feelin' Somewhat Spunky,
When They Start To Stompin' Clunky,
As They Answer To Their Monkey . . .
And, You Know, Those Boys Be Dancin'!
Hey, They Might Be Pretty Punkie,
Or Maybe They're All Grime And Gunky . . .
Call Them Fakes, Or Call Them Funky . . .
But Their Trousers Gots Some Ants In.
So, Put Away That Jukebox Junkie . . .
Polish Up Your Dory-Hunky . . .
Lester Plunks, And Chester's Chunky . . .
But, You Know, Their Notes Are Trancin'!

The State of music . . . another one,
quickly revealed to us.
At first the din of total noise
made us furious.

But the symbols of some messages
were flying overhead
in talons of some eagles, to
some lofty nesting bed.

Jo and I both figured that
it wasn't poetry.
He must have guessed it was a song,
regardless, eventually . . .

one of us would get it right.
We both thought music must
be more or less a nice thing, 'til
we learned more of its lust.

The really funny thing we found,
before we left that State,
was just how much of it is done,
not for love, but hate.

It's apparently the anger at
one's looking for too long
to find a bit of self that makes
a dude break into song . . .

who's holding out a hand to grip,
and flail at wood that gets
hardened stiff, and greased and strung
with wires over frets.

And aiming at an audience,
and blowing them away . . .
hell, it ain't no love song that
those dudes are apt to play.

With thunder, guns and cannon balls,
and kettles boiled backstage . . .
we found that even symphonies
are acting out of rage.

We weren't surprised, as we began
to hear a different sound . . .
the thunder of the Voice approached
as all else settled down.

We didn't know we needed help,
but then, again, we weren't
all that sure of what we'd found,
and less of what we'd learnt.

"You boys are lucky . . . that's for sure.
I've had my eyes on you.
If I had not been watching, well . . .
who knows what it would do."

"What what would do," Jo-Mima spoke,
expressing both our thoughts.
"Are we in mortal danger of
some rocking juggernauts?"

"Danger doesn't quite describe
the threat you boys might face
if you would fail to recognize
the evil of this place.

Music, as the saying goes,
might soothe the savage breast.
The problem is, a soothing rib
don't mollify the rest.

The claws of music's hammer can
dig deep in someone's brain.
Its execution weapons seek
a throne from which to reign.

The thrones are filled with lights and sound,
and subjects genuflect
beneath their kings and queens without
the sense they should reflect.

Its hard to see, just looking on,
the power that's endowed,
not by the singer's artfulness,
but weak wills in the crowd.

So, amplifiers bursting forth
with knife-like guitar screams,
and trap-sets goring guts below
their cymbalizing dreams . . .

permit their wielders to acquire
devoted followings
from believer-wannabes that wait
in every stage's wings.

And with that adoration comes,
as to all mortal gods,
the power over hearts and minds,
as well as cones and rods.

The weak become believers, and
their revelations prove
that all to which they've sworn their souls
is worthy of that move.

And now the altar, full of stars,
begins to more fulfill
the wishes from the hearts of those
who witness what they will.

And now the altar, full of beasts,
begins, to crimson, turn,
as, soothed-of-breast, but not of heart,
they do ignite and burn . . .

each and every soul brought forth,
and laid upon the stage.
Musicians cannot help themselves.
They're instruments of rage."

The ringing of the Voice's words
just drifted off like some
percussive kind of back-beat, and
slightly audible hum.

#88: Doth Strength Come In Numbers? (Power)

Sighn Post 7

The fog was thickening around the Car.
We slowed down to a crawl.
We pushed and pulled on every knob,
and peddle that we saw.

The noise we heard began to build
like some guitar reverb,
increasing with the pressure of
the fog we had disturbed.

We broke out through what I would call
extremely clear air-space.
We bolted forth, then, bouncing off
all bumpers in the place.

We slammed into a painted sign
that looked just like a graph,
and at the top, we read the words:
"The High End Epitaph."

Power - it's a measurement . . .
from strength to smell of excrement,
from thrust of rocket, heaven-sent,
to decibel of a scream's lament,
from soft to hard,
from low to high,
from weak to strong,
and dead to spry.
In golf, it may improve your lie.
In tennis it can fault your fly.

It's not the power that you vent
that guarantees your incident
for stronger, still, may be the guy
who checks his swing and tames his try . . .

No MPH, nor brim that's full,
nor high degree of centigrade
nor sour lems in lemonade
nor any number, level, height,
depth nor distance, must nor might
see you through a stormy night
when thy soul is discontent.

Remember the composer's impudent brag . . .?
It belonged to Richard, that Nihilist Vag.
It wasn't tempo, volume or pitch
that made the heavens jump and twitch.
He angered gods, and all their roadies . . .
by the nature of his melodies.

Keep your powers useful . . .
they should be tickets . . .
not sticky wickets!

#89: One Man's Fart Is Another Man's Heart (Art)

You See Some Work, Critic-Saluted,
Vetted, Valued . . . Nowhere Refuted,
The Teachers Having Taught And Tooted
The Stroker No Less Than Saint.
Whether Brushed, Or Fired, Or Booted,
Art, And All To Which It's Suited,
Still Is Only Constituted
By A Little Paint.

Art was one of the weirdest States
I think we visited.
Our maps had helped get us there, but
the place was full of shit.

I think it was the only time
we saw a car like ours,
and travelers ooo'd and aahh'd about
some cow pies and dung towers.

They bought and sold, and stole and saved
the bovine excrement
as if it all were made of gold,
or autographed by Vincent.

The scene disturbed me, I'll admit,
though I was keeping still.
But Jo-Mima's less-than-soft comments
were nothing less that shrill.

"Nothing here is even work . . ."
he yelled at all who stood
close enough to hear us, and
who then grabbed all they could.

Well, he went on insulting them,
and with a critic's flair,
he called them names, and laughed out loud,
but no one seemed to care.

Indeed, I'd have to say that they
seemed deaf to his reproach.
They speedily went on about
their dung and feces poach.

"Damn, this is so stupid, but
it's getting to me now,"
Jo said to me, as we began
considering the cow.

"Maybe I've been missing all
the signs of cow pie art.
Maybe we should try to give
collecting dung a start."

And, yes, it helped us out somewhat
to hear the Voice advise
that bovine shit was exactly that
of which art is comprised . . .

that unbeknownst to us, these cows
weren't only taking shits,
but intending to express themselves
with cowly pie-ous bits.

That "art" was the expression of
intentions to create,
while others waste their energies
trying to evaluate.

It didn't seem at all profound,
and doesn't seem so now,
but I got the sense that Level 3
might treat it more somehow.

And, finally, as we turned to go,
and maybe only then,
we pulled an extra lesson from
that cow-galleric den . . .

that, yes, all men are free to find
their own concept of art . . .
and, yes, that token in reverse
permits one to depart . . .

from any group's convention, or
the leanings of the horde . . .
and yet, it's tough to stay ashore
when everyone's on board.

For, as we watched the countless nuts
go combing through that field,
where nothing but more piles of dung
was all that it could yield . . .

we got the odd sensation that
we ought to get a sack,
and start collecting crap that we
could frame when we got back.

#90: All My Doggerels Are Wearing Goggerles (Poetry, Today?)

Epics Need Some Interlude,
Allowing Any Hapless Dude
Who Should So Much As Muster Mood
Enough To Read This Tome . . .
To Find His Strength, And Fortitude,
Before Bestowing Rightly Rude
Phrases Per This Mightily Crude
Pretense To Be A Pome!
Or:
As A Poet Today Might Even Say . . .

It was from some burning
that they found their words on the fiery cinders,
hissing in their bellies, and in their minds.
They danced. It was their time!

All those early choreographers
who placed footprints on pages for our neo-feet.
We followed, trying to fit their sweaty, stretched boots . . .
only to blister our minds.

Like a bunch of Murrays on Nureyev's stage,
we stumble, staccato-stepping . . . leaping at a ledge
over which we once saw Frost shuffle.
And, so ignorant of our crime . . .

we practice the fox trot near the bar
in the strip mall dance halls of familiar neighborhoods.
We get giddy at our reflection in the black tie and tails
we lifted from the five and dime.

The music sounds like static - cold - from space.
There is no heat, no fire, no burning.
There is no anger, and no fear . . . and what is worse,
we don't know how to rhyme.

#91: You Can Pick Your Crayon, But Stay Inside The Lines (Social Mores)

They All Gang Up, And Then They Bluster,
All Those Seeking Your Adjuster,
Helping Them To Feel Their Muster
Above Someone's Condemning . . .
Still, We Know Their Quaintly Cluster,
Toe-To-Toe For Any Custer,
Like Of Feather, Quick To Duster . . .
As Any Other Lemming.

There was one strange place we found
where, measured on a meter,
were all the folks who played a game
of following the leader.

They'd all be going one way, strong,
then someone else would lead . . .
and, no sooner would that path be trod . . .
the point-man would concede.

The group was making progress, but
the players, like most kinds
of cows and sheep that follow bells,
appeared to have no minds.

So, this went on for quite a time,
but lacking noticeable
affect to any direction for
the players as a whole.

After giving serious reflection to
a few bygone forays,
it was Jo who got the notion we'd
found the State of Mores.

There came no revelation, nor
a sense of great design.
The Buggy just revved up when we
refused a place in line.

#92: U Can Be Us With A Little "S" (Peers)

You Don't Want To Be A Sucker . . .
Party-Pooper, Duty-Ducker . . .
You Might Even Be A Fucker,
Given Half A Chance!
Hell With Chickens, Let 'Em Clucker,
This Group's Got The Jive And Shucker . . .
When You Wear Our Bib And Tucker . . .
You'll Be Cooler At The Dance . . .
And We'll Know You At A Glance.

And then from there we traveled on
an uninspiring pike,
where rows of robots stood and went
through actions all alike.

Once in a while, some new guy
would come to join the crowd.
He'd start out with a different style,
but soon they all cow-towed.

At first we didn't pick up on
the fact that every one
was acting just like all the rest . . .
all clone programs run.

As I recall, we watched awhile.
There never came a time
when either Jo or I felt weird,
or somewhat out of line.

And almost like awakening from
a dreamless kind of sleep,
we both woke up to hear the Voice
describing us as sheep.

"You boys have had your lucky days,
and those have served you well.
This time, you nearly lost yourselves
to some ignoble hell.

That's right, this State is that of Peers,
and though it lets you fall
to dreamy comforts, you would find
there's no escape at all.

The travelers who have shown up here,
and failed to come prepared,
are still out there in robot suits,
dead, but always scared.

They join into the crowd that looks
as if it knows its way.
Before they have a chance to go,
they find they have to stay.

It's like electric networks of
computers, only flesh.
They capture new arrivals, and
encase them in the mesh.

Arrivals seem to always seek
acceptance of the group.
If only they perceived the need
that bubbles in that troop.

But seeking to belong so bad,
before they feel their chains,
they're eager to entwine themselves,
and offer up their brains."

The Voice went on about that State,
and all of it made sense,
but Jo and I still felt alone,
and just a little tense . . .

as we got in the Buggy, and
prepared to leave that place.
And I remember looking back
and seeing my own face.

#93: Don't Bemoan The Ol' Strike Zone (Sports)

You Might Find A Nugget
Of Heaviness, And Lug It
To Your Own Safe And Snug It
Where Nothing Can Abort
Its Value Nor Its Drug Hit . . .
You Can Kiss Or Slug It . . .
But You Won't Bind Or Bug It
Like The Gain From Sport.
Or:
Fame Is Lame, The Lesson's The Game

The whirring of whatever we'd called
an "engine" up to now,
carried us through a stuff barrage,
much crazier, somehow.

Boards and balls, and sticks and clubs
slapped the windshield hard.
Now and again we thought we saw
some kind of scoring card.

It seemed we saw some symbol of
every game we'd had
the pleasure playing . . . and then we stopped
on a chess-board painted pad.

"Okay, I get it," I said to Jo,
"we'll cut this visit short.
It's something about our winning games . . .
or playing the good sport."

The door popped up. We disembarked,
and gazed down from our hill
at sporting fields of every type . . .
yep . . . athletics-ville!

A bulletin board stood up beside
a cooler full of beer.
"Mind the rules throughout this land,
all ye, who would play here."

The sky was bright, like normal Earth,
a perfect day for golf.
We decided we'd go check it out.
Jo-Mima led us off.

Right off the bat, we walked up to
your average tennis court . . .
the balls and racquets, idled without
players of any sort.

And another board of bulletins
stood there by itself.
I walked on over and started to read.
Jo rang a timer's bell.

"Surviving mandates nourishment, and
the gathering of food . . .
and demands the knowledge of the tools
required to extrude.

Points will go to winners, while
the winners must survive.
But the match is only granted to
a player who's alive."

"What the hell was that you read?"
Jo had cocked an ear.
"Were those supposed to be the rules
for tennis playing here?

Damn, they need to lighten up.
Life's already gone
too serious for damn tennis games
to bloody up the lawn."

Well, I agreed with Jo, and we
moved on a hundred feet . . .
to another marked-off field where we
could read how they compete.

It was very big, with markings of
your average stadium,
sectioned off in ten yard strips,
with goal posts at each end.

"It's football or it's soccer,"
I mumbled, walking toward
another set of printed rules
on another wooden board.

I read out loud so Jo could hear
more words that made no sense…
at least for someone trying to win
the Southeast conference.

"Winning isn't everything,
at least, not all the time.
Playing a part upon the team
is how to toe the line."

Jo-Mima looked at me as if
he thought I played a joke.
"That's what it said," I affirmed.
We walked on down the slope.

As we approached the diamond, Jo
was studying the rules.
He shook his head as we got close . . .
"They must think that we're fools?"

The words were clear, in Day-Glo paint,
in front of where Jo stood . . .
"Learn to sacrifice your life,
if for the greater good."

About that time, I started to think
of all that we'd just read.
I reflected on the messages,
and turned to Jo and said,

"These rules aren't for these games at all.
These rules apply to life.
They have no more to do with sports
than I am Barney Fife."

We looked out on an endless scape
of sporting court and field . . .
and realized that each of them,
had further rules to yield.

"By golly, Jo, just check it out!
What incredible luck!!
The total list of living's rules
is here for us to pluck.

It'll take awhile, but once we've walked
to all these playing grounds,
we can take our good ol' time
gettin' each secret down."

And then the air was shattered by
a strident, buzzer's scream,
followed by a thunderous call,
"Game! You lose again!"

"Wait," I said, assuming the Voice
might let me have my say,
"this is way too great-a find
for playing keep-away."

The Voice responded as our scene
resolved back into hill.
"This State is not a shortcut for
a life to be fulfilled.

The only reason you can leave
is for your coming close
to understanding things you take
away from sports the most.

So, every culture has its sports,
and all sports have their rules,
but playing them, far more than words,
can make them teaching tools.

Sports and games, as you both know,
in spite of how your minds
often leave you so confused
you can't tell your behinds . . .

have a way of giving folks
some lessons greater than
rewards that come from scoring, or
the winning of them can.

And though someone could sit you down,
and browbeat you with sense
on how to do your best, or how
to live without pretense . . .

you learn those lessons better from
the part you have to play
in competition on a team,
or in your own relay.

Your Carriage is awaiting you
because you know this State
is all about that fact that sports
hold lessons that are great.

Yes, it's true, this State holds more
for you to learn at length . . .
but I know what's ahead for,
and you will need your strength."

#94: Try Not . . . Do, Or Do Not! (Luck)

So Life Is Filled With Loathsome Itches,
Twisters, Tumbles, Turns And Twitches . . .
You Miss Your Niche And Hit Some Ditches
Just Trying To Learn The Dance.
All The Dance Halls Have Their Bitches . . .
Life, Like Horses, Comes With Hitches,
But That Don't Mean You Count On Witches
Divining You A Chance.

I guess we should have expected it,
after the Voice's hints,
that we'd eventually see the State
that was coincidence.

And I remember very well
another symbol'd ride,
with dice and coins and roulette wheels
slapping at our side.

We came to rest, and there upon,
surveyed at our egress,
a land of games of chance, the scope
of which we could not guess.

As with so many other States
that seemed without an end,
we saw that where one game might stop,
another would begin.

It felt as though we walked a path
exactly like before,
where shapes of States were much alike,
but each with new decor.

We first approached what looked to be
a giant game of craps,
and though the place looked lifeless, we
thought we heard, perhaps . . .

a sound just like a laughing crowd,
muffled and nearly mute.
Jo and I just figured that
the Voice was being cute.

I grabbed the dice and felt that they
were warm from frequent use.
That's when Jo first recognized
what players there could lose.

The table had no dollar signs,
nor chips with which to bet.
There were only stacks of printed cards
with prizes you could get.

These prizes weren't just toys and things
in party favor styles,
but the kinds of things you think of when
confronting life's big trials.

"Healing from the deadliest of
diseases known to man,"
was one of the cards I noticed first,
lying close at hand.

Some of them seemed silly, like,
"Oasis," one card read,
but without that card, a simple walk
would leave the player dead.

We decided to look further, and
to leave that game alone.
I laid the dice down carefully and,
I heard a muffled groan.

Beside us was another game
that looked just like roulette,
except in place of numbers was
more stuff in life we sweat.

And some were really trivial,
and some were quite severe,
and more and more we backed away,
as we could feel our fear.

And we could feel some sinister-
type forces were at play,
and though each game there promised us
big answers or big pay . . .

it was no more than a crap shoot,
and took no act nor thought,
and though it seemed quite easy, it
seemed easy to get caught.

"Jo, we've played some games before,
in spite of the exposure,
but rewards like these from games of chance . . .
it just don't feel quite kosher."

"Yes, Bo Beef, but do we say,
of the oddities we've seen,
all of a sudden we're backing off
from something so routine?"

"I know we've seen much weirder stuff,
and I sure can't explain
why I feel there's somethin' here
from which we must refrain."

I cupped my hands above my eyes
to block away the sun,
and saw a million games of chance
with prizes by the ton.

Luck In Love and Business were
two that sat nearby.
Longevity and Sportsmanship
were just the other side.

Then, walking back we came upon
a tiny water pond.
A giant fish was thrashing there.
Its life would soon be gone.

As if with resignation, he
grew calm as we approached.
He looked at us, and perfectly,
made sense, when then, he spoke:

"Run from here as best you can,
and do not touch these games.
This place is not of Fortune's hand,
but Hell's own thirsty flames.

Mistakenly, one thing I sought,
and one game caught my eye.
I wished that I might e'er be thought
a local, famous guy.

So, how was I to guess my dream,
to be a bigger fish
in the waters of my local stream
would be the very wish . . .

that game would grant me as I swayed,
wooed further by its spell?
So, how was I to know I played
a game that comes from Hell?"

Our hearts were filled with pity, but
we dared not linger more.
And Jo and I then sprinted toward
the Buggy's open door.

As we approached our Carriage, we
could hear a thundered laugh . . .
"Well, damn if I'm not proud of you.
I've got to hand you that.

At times your luck has seen you through
what might have otherwise
been fumble, farce and failure, or
your mortal life's demise.

And though you might have saddled chance,
as if some trusted mount,
she's not the loyal beast upon
which any man might count.

She is no living spirit, as
most men would like to think.
It's math and science averages
that keep the world in synch.

Of course, your kind will always try
to reinterpret fact,
and decide that probability was
a predetermined act."

And then the Voice grew quiet, and
whispered, "Before you're through,
we might have opportunity for
the proof that this is true."

We didn't really understand
exactly what it meant,
but later, in the Meaning State,
we got some kind of hint.

"The man is but a fool who thinks,"
the Voice's tone was older,
"his life gets any guidance from
an angel on his shoulder.

Oh, my heart goes out, sometimes,
to any weakly wits,
as the world of physics truth destroys
all those idiots."

"Okay, we got it," Jo came back,
"we're stupid in this State.
Just tell us how to get outta here
before it gets too late."

"By now, I thought it obvious . . .
to anyone live-born,"
the Voice replied to Jo with none
too little bit of scorn.

"Mankind will usually want to feel
there's something greater than
their efforts and their knowledge, and,
more powerful than man.

It's funny that in spite of all
your egotistic needs,
you often feel too guilty to
take credit for your deeds.

You often say you're lucky when
you take, and ace, a test,
but though you never read the book,
you know you listened best.

What is it makes you want to say
you cannot get it made?
What comfort do you gain when fate
takes credit for your grade?

There are no fates nor muses, boys.
There is no karmic Zen.
You only get from life what you
are able to put in.

And Luck, for all its evils, is
ironically, the blade
that, deeper, cuts the predator,
than those on whom he's preyed.

More insidious than your future's thief,
addictive, just like dope,
it woos a man to thinking that
a chance can bring him hope.

There's human sayings that I've heard
on muck and straps of boots,
and though it's often shot like guns,
it's honest at its roots."

The Voice was fading off again,
and Jo and I just turned
to find ourselves at Buggy-side,
with engine fully churned.

"Is it just me," I asked my friend,
"or did this whole last State
make you feel like never again
calling something fate?"

#95: Sittin' Or Shittin' - It's Still A Stool (Technology)

Well Yes, The Future Might Look Chilling,
As You Witness All The Killing . . .
Blood And Life Just Keeps On Spilling
For The Craftsman And The Vandal.
But, Would It Not Be Extra Thrilling
If You Learned The Turning-Tilling
Of Your Soils Is Now Instilling
Into Your Life, A Candle?
Just Know This, That While You're Milling,
The Tool You Take Betwixt Your Filling
Your Cradle And Your Grave, God Willing . . .
You've Got To Grab The Handle.

The smoothest of our rides might well
have been the one that took
us all the way to where we found
a crazy, cyber-nook.

Our landing pad looked just the same
in elevated slope,
but this time we were fenced in by
walls of beige and taupe.

Bulbs were blinking on and off
from huge computer screens . . .
that beige, ubiqui-plastic shade
was backing everything.

Remembering our bumpless ride,
I turned to Jo and said,
"There wasn't much debris back there.
Perhaps this place is dead."

We thought we heard a chuckle, but
we couldn't really tell . . .
high-pitched and metallic,
it was too mechanical.

The surroundings did seem clear enough
for me to venture out,
and as I stepped, I took a guess
at what it was about.

"It's just about computers, and
the new world that they bring.
It looks to me as if that song
is all this State can sing.

It's colorless, and plastic, and
it renders men exposed . . .
all the same, beneath the frames
of doorways that are closed."

Then all at once, a single screen
turned bright, and image-filled . . .
of wildest men, with bloodied hands,
and innocence they killed . . .

a little fawn, and rabbits, and,
a clearly human child.
Their eyes were mad, their teeth were bared.
Their arms were swinging wild.

We worked to comprehend the scene,
when just about that time,
another monitor lit and showed
a nature trail to climb.

A healthy group of mountaineers,
each one with a backpack,
worked together as a team
to make their peak attack.

And, yes, another screen lit up,
and this one showed some kids.
They were infants next to mothers who
were canning fruit with lids.

And after about an hour or so,
when Jo and I had caught
at least a hundred monitor shows,
and each with its own ought . . .

we sat down on a desktop, and,
we started asking Qs . . .
like, "What the heck was going on?
This wasn't evening news."

But we were really tuckered out . . .
it being such a long,
and tiresome trip, since first we left
our lives and loves back home.

We might well still be sitting there,
had scenes not then appeared
to change to stranger symbols of
some icons once revered.

A weirder sight befell us then,
as monitors and their guts
of all of those computers belched
their circuits, bolts and nuts.

They started morphing, like cartoons,
from CRTs to stuff
a lot more recognizable,
and much less cyber-fluff.

Some of them grew handles, and,
some others, sharpened points.
Some of them grew straight and thin,
while some developed joints.

There were hammers, saws and bevels,
and vice-grips, two abreast . . .
while screw-drivers of every size
lay in a metal chest.

And about the time that every tube
completed its weird change,
Jo-Mima put his finger on
what made it seem so strange.

"Bo," he said, "you realize,
the message for us here
is not about technology . . .
as it might well appear . . .

but rather, it's the future,
and how we're best to thrive,
using tools that get us through
the next decade alive.

It's not about our modems, or
our chips and circuit boards . . .
nor was it ever hammers, or
saws and power cords."

"Jo-Mima, you were wearing down,"
we heard the thunder roar,
as then the Voice returned to help
us find an exit door.

"Well, I can sympathize. Let's see,
the two of you have been
out here, voyaging around
for minutes now, on end.

And now, in spite of all fatigue,
Jo-Mima's found the way
for both of you to leave this State,
and all it does convey.

Tools are tools, regardless of
their matter, glass or wood . . .
and some of them don't always fit
just like you think they should.

And yes, they can enhance the worst
of lack of soul and will,
and while they might have worked for good,
can they destroy and kill.

But, even tools once lent to war,
just like the cyclotron,
whose atom-smashing bombs became
a cancer cure's new dawn . . .

have proven that the tool is not
possessed of will and soul . . .
the consequence belongs to man,
who sits at the control.

And technology, once fire and lathes,
was man's abilities
to work with ores and heat to make
things of iron and trees.

And now, though not so different, he
constructs a newer tier
of tool to help him work his world . . .
and that's the message here . . .

though, given one more second, and
your minds, now, less confused,
I would advise that no tool works
unless that tool is used."

#96: Hey Dude, It's Just An Attitude! (Optimism)

So, You Might Think Your Mind Is Spongy . . .
Or Buried Deep Beneath The Dunjy,
Where All The Mold And Filth And Fungee
Consider You A Food Thing,
But You Will Learn That Pluck And Plungy
Suited Doer, Or The Grungy,
Dude That Follows Ola Tungy
Can Turn To Bright Whatever's Skungy,
With Nothing But A Mood Swing.

We'd just hopped back into our seats.
The Buggy took to flight.
I didn't even have a chance
to pull the hatch down tight.

The same old flotsam and debris
slapped the hood and grill . . .
but every crash excited us,
and seemed to bring a thrill.

The ride was fast, but as we slowed,
I saw the sky turn red.
We came to rest in the middle of
a giant flower bed.

The door had never really shut,
and now was open wide.
I heard Jo-Mima breathing deep
as he took a step outside.

"Well, I think we've made it to the land
of roses," Jo-Mima said . . .
and, just as I was stepping out
into that world of red.

A little walk from our landing hill,
we found a tower built
with flights of stairs to a platform where
a painted sign read, "Hilt!"

As Jo and I surveyed the work
of tower carpenters,
a man walked by a spoke to us . . .
"Fine day for conquerors."

We felt no sense of urgency,
and certainly weren't sure,
where in the world we'd come to rest,
or what we'd got there for.

So, we skipped the climb and moseyed on,
begging constant pardon
of all the smiling folks who filled
the pathways of the garden.

Then we came upon a monument that
we couldn't ascertain.
It seemed to be in honor of
a locomotive train.

An inscription carved into its base
showed workmanship and care,
"I think I can, I think I can . . .
pull us all up there."

I raised myself on tippy-toes
to get a better look
at the endless gardened artworks in
every crannied nook.

We saw some sculptures of raising flags . . .
of mighty walls come down . . .
of victories in battles, and . . .
we heard the trumpets sound.

Something stirred inside me, but
I still could not make out
exactly what the lesson of
this State was all about.

Jo then called attention to
something further on . . .
it was the sweetest smelling cauldron,
just bubbling in the ground.

As we walked up, the steam that rose,
like smoke from sugar's flame,
filled our heads with powerful dreams,
and will to win the game.

I backed away, with gritted teeth,
and yelled a primal yell.
Jo-Mima jumped and did a twist,
and shook his fist at Hell.

"We're champions, and we'll destroy
every foe we meet,"
Jo-Mima screamed at the heart of Earth . . .
and we both stomped our feet.

Then, that first intoxicating breath
began to fade away,
and we noticed that we couldn't see
through the steamy gray.

And, without a word, without a sound,
we walked some further on . . .
around that giant cauldron's base
to see what lay beyond.

#97: And Attitude Can Be Es-Chewed (Pessimism)

And So You Take Another Breath
Of Day, And Fight Off Certain Death,
Surviving As You're Able . . .
Escaping Fates That Call Macbeth,
And He Who'd Take That Twentieth
Cookie From The Table . . .
Or:
Your Actions Are As Hollow
As Anything You Swallow.

It was almost like we'd gotten back
inside the Buggy, and
then lifted off, and flown away,
and found another land.

But the cauldron was still bubbling as
our feet had finally lit,
now that we had circled to
the far side of the pit.

And, with no way for us to know
what horror we might find,
we did inhale again, and let
aromas fill our mind.

Jo-Mima let a terrible scream,
while I began to cry.
"I cannot face a moment more,
it's time for me to die."

I heard me utter words like those,
and heard Jo-Mima wail.
I forced my head up, to look upon
a vulture's bobbing tail.

In a final, survival gasp of nerve,
I pushed up to my feet.
I grabbed Jo-Mima's collar and
we looked for our retreat.

People crouched on bended knees,
their heads held in their hands.
They were sobbing uncontrollably,
for broken dreams and plans.

We crawled and stumbled, and poured our guts,
without and ounce to spare,
passing broken gates and paths,
and signs of more despair.

Now looking back, I realize that
we mostly traveled blind,
moving toward . . . we knew not what,
but leaving this behind.

As if the traveler's saints might have
some mercy on our fate,
we chanced to see the Buggy parked
beyond an exit gate.

We pulled each other 'til we dropped
on just the other side.
I couldn't move another step,
no matter how I tried.

Then all at once, the rushing of
emotional release,
swept through our bodies, and we felt
a very welcome peace.

Some minutes passed, and Jo and I
finally sat upright,
"That was pretty close," he said,
"to the ultimate 'good night'."

The Carriage rested quietly.
We clearly were not done,
but satisfied that we were safe,
we stood and looked around.

We discovered that we'd hauled ourselves
back up on the hill . . .
from which we saw the circle that
we'd traced within this drill.

The tower and the gardens, and
the cauldron and beyond . . .
it all turned 'round and ended at
the hilltop we were on.

"It looks as though we've followed all
the pathways we were sent,
but I'll be damned if I can tell
what any of it meant."

"You don't suppose," Jo-Mima broke
his silence, asking me,
"that we were drugged when we inhaled
that cauldron's lethal tea?"

We pivoted when we both heard
the Buggy's engine gun . . .
but it settled back to silence, and
did not begin to run.

"Okay, a cigarette," I joked,
"but you get no cigar!
So, let's start figuring why the hell
we're standing where we are."

"I've got a memory," Jo-Mima said,
"for a moment I felt strong,
and then we walked some further steps,
and everything went wrong.

What if it's the State of mood?"
I listened as Jo mused,
"if so, you wouldn't think I'd feel
so utterly confused.

For a while, there, I was feeling up . . .
so optimistically . . .
nothing bad or evil was
going got bother me!"

At that the Buggy choked to life,
but did not fully crank . . .
but enough to tell us Jo-Mima might
be the dude to thank!

"Enough's enough!" the whole ground shook,
as then we heard the Voice
deciding it was time to guide
his favorite wind-up toys.

"Maybe I'm just merciful . . .
or maybe I'm just bored,
but again Jo-Mima's close enough
to earn you this reward.

And, yes, I'll give you credit
'cause the message this State
is not without its challenges.
Most humans never rate.

Still, I'm disappointed that
after you'd survived,
you failed to draw conclusions from
what's clearly so contrived.

Of course, in fact, you just went through
two wholly different States . . .
the Optim- and the Pessim-
are the isms you relate.

And though you often see those two
as little more than mood,
they are, in fact, the basis for
so much of what you do.

Men do what they think they can,
and fail at thoughts of can't.
No greater seed than mood, can man,
within his own heart, plant.

The irony that will come to play
is man will often not
generate the mood he needs,
though he might know he ought.

A brew of a thousand chemicals,
in subtleties so slight,
that thousands go unnoticed, but
they're governing his plight.

His oatmeal was too milky, or,
her coffee was too rich . . .
and thus, the world will now defeat
that wimp and crying bitch.

With an extra pad of butter, or,
a tincture less of salt,
and I can bring an empire's rise
just skidding to a halt.

And though this is not fitness, nor,
the confidence of mind,
both those States are neighbors, and
are allies of a kind.

The lesson that you take with you
as, now, you leave this place,
is chemistry, as much as soul,
predicts your gift of grace."

"What?" I asked, incredulous,
"You're saying we'd delete
all we've learned so far, because
of what we chance to eat?"

"Bo, you might be stupid, but,
at least you catch a part
of messages, regardless that,
you rarely get the heart.

Of course, you count what you have learned
within this latest truth . . .
but even Earth acquits the sin
that's caused by Baby Ruth.

But, make no more of canons here
than you might anywhere . . .
no one lesson answers all
the questions life will bare.

But as you count on confidence,
and absence of despair,
to help you meet the challenge of
the life you live out there . . .

remember that the guts you think
you've welled up from within,
may only be a piece of meat,
or last night's glass of gin.

And, get to know the causes of
your moods, and you'll begin
to get more done, as you'll become
chemically better men."

#98: Hi, I'm Me . . . Nice To Meet Ya! (Self Knowledge)

(Sighn Post 8)

It Flashed Beside Us Like A Bolt,
A Lightning Crack Of Vastly Volt,
And Though It Gave Us Both A Jolt,
We Read It Clear As Day.
And This, It Had To Say.

You've come to shed delirium.
So be it that you're deaf and dumb
sailing's more than cranium . . .
and more than wind and hull.

So shun the sanitarium,
packaged pills and bottled rum . . .
and yet, to each you may succumb,
to peer below the skull.

And toss away your mirrors, chum.
Reflection is but cumbersome
when you will seek the medium
beyond all obstacle.

You've sought the auditorium
of inventory shelf and sum,
to find that fingers and a thumb
don't make a hand that's full.

How does man . . . or anyone
get to know himself, or come
to know the soup his soul has swum
to be this barnacle?

No, there's not a modicum
of cell in pericardium,
nor any tissued speculum
lent to monocle . . .

that gives the equilibrium
beyond the womb and worrisome
existence of today's prud'homme,
in living spectacle.

We're forced to simply string and strum
our instruments, 'ore we become
just some more petroleum,
and decaying chronicle.

Thinking is the only drum
that meters 'neath the tweedledum
we use to hide behind the hum
of each new versicle.

So, turn inside . . . ad libitum,
and shoot, like lasered radium,
the ghosts you use to mime and mum
your own, true miracle . . .
that short of sainthood's pinnacle . . .
know thyownself better some!

#99: The Last Word In Tomorrow Is "Ow"! (the Future)

Take Your Time, And Try To Read
Your Tea Leaves That Have Gone To Seed . . .
Or Maybe You Would Rather Heed
A Tarot Dealer's Voice.
Your Goals, Your Goofs, And Yes, Your Greed . . .
Are Just Some Of The Weights That Lead
To All The Tonnage You Will Need
To Find The Strength To Hoist.
You Might Laugh And Then Succeed.
You Might Cry And Often Bleed.
The Point Is, Only What's Decreed
Will Give You Any Choice.

So, we sat there in the Carriage, and . . .
we looked among the cards,
trying to pick the one that might
be good, in our regards.

Then finally, with frustration, Jo
grabbed up a closer one.
A monosyllabic, single word
that looked somewhat like "Sun."

We both recall that moment well.
The image that it brought
upon our minds was more the times
which times gone by had wrought.

Had we been riding dimensionally,
without a guarding rail
to keep us on a straighter path,
we might have pierced the veil . . .

and slid into some other world . . .
some other universe,
where lessons came with greater pain,
or didn't come, what's worse.

But being that our path was set
within a certain frame,
we safely bounced around a bit
by known rules of the game.

I almost had a dreamy sense
that we would meet ourselves,
in library stacks and reference rows,
with nothing on the shelves.

Then we saw what looked to be
a giant burial ground . . .
where decaying plants and dying trees,
and animals lay around.

And then we felt the summer sun
heat up like Rio Beach.
And when we looked we saw the sky
stretch out beyond Earth's reach.

The sun filled up the afternoon,
and things began to melt.
We saw a wisp of smoke as moons
were tucked into Sol's belt.

"What's going on around here, Bo?"
Jo sounded pretty scared.
"It ain't for us," I told my friend,
and feeling quite prepared . . .

"I am a closet scientist, Jo . . .
that much you know is true,
and the feel of all this gassing state,
just ain't for me and you."

I knew, based on my Astro books,
that what we saw was not
meant either for our time, or us,
although it was real hot.

"We're looking at the future now . . .
and yes, it's very strange,
but not a future we're gonna feel . . .
this calls for cosmic change.

The universe now looks to make
its destiny well known,
but billions of years after you and I
have turned back into ground."

"So, all this scariness and threat
might just be a clever
way to keep us mindful that
we won't live forever?

And, hey, who says that we might not?
I mean, we made it through
some pretty weird adventures here.
Who says the rules aren't new?"

"They might be new." A rumbling roar
came crashing on our heads . . .
and we knew the Voice was back to help
the weavers find their threads.

"Well?" Jo-Mima tapped his foot . . .
a mock impatient mood.
"What's the future hold for us?
If it be understood?"

"You're closer than you think, again,
to learning what you ought
about the prize of Future, which
your past already bought.

But, then again, you fail to see
the Future isn't set.
It isn't things you're doomed to meet,
but things that might be met.

But like so many lessons that
you've learned on Level 2,
you ought to grasp the irony of
the State of Future too.

You see, it's not some war between
determined and free-willed.
The Future isn't ransomed off,
rationed or distilled.

You get your time and get your choice,
and further, get your chance.
The Future will be yours to waltz
as you will try to dance.

On the other hand, the Future won't
be turned this way or that.
It isn't there for you to say
you'll have it thin or fat.

The only way you have to will
some portion of its birth,
is taking every chance you can
of learning while on Earth.

By knowing what he must become,
a man, like anything,
has better recognition of
what Future's time can bring."

"You mean," Jo interrupted then,
trying to summarize,
"there's certain stuff that's meant to be,
and stuff that's a surprise."

"Yes, that isn't too far off,"
the Voice was pretty kind.
"But it's more than just a balance of
what you can make and find.

The point is clear, you cannot make
a single thing take place
unless you know what can't be done,
except, of course, with Grace.

In other words, the lesson here,
is not life's take and give,
but change will not be made without
some rules that you must live."

The Voice was gone. The Buggy slept,
and we just stood there 'til
Jo-Mima said a funny thing
and broke the Buggy's spell.

He was saying that he didn't see
the way the Buggy runs,
since nothing seemed to keep it from
some rampant stalls and guns.

And while he talked about the car,
expressing his concern
for that machine's whole lack of laws,
we heard the motor turn.

It wasn't that we knew a word,
or learned a lesson, true,
but it made me think that no game can
be won without its rules . . .

and not that Future is a game
that we might lose or win,
but since we want to play it well,
we need to understand . . .

the molding of a future takes
the guts to carve a day,
but chisels, knives and hammers won't
do much without the clay.