Saturday, June 30, 2012

Poetry by the Shaman

My recent studies have led me to a place of fresh perspective, and I have been rethinking my approach to the Subconscious mind project. Not really in substance, but I think I see a way of expressing it more clearly.

As I have been studying and meditating the past few months I have made a number of poems about my life's transitions and perspectives. I put together a small booklet of my new and a few older poems and here is the contents below.









Everybody I Know Needs What I’m Selling


12 Poems to Save Me and the World
by Comic Book Shaman

***1



The cover is a distortion of Bill Watterson’s work.
Copyright 2012 Bill Watterson, all rights reserved.
Krazy Kat panels by George Herriman whom
I love above all cartoonists.
Systematic Ambiguity is a paragraph taken
from Chapter Two of the introduction of Principia Mathematica, 1911 by
A. N. Whitehead and B. Russell.

Published under Creative Commons License
2012 by Comic Book Shaman









-http://twitter.com/comicbookshaman
-http://www.youtube.com/02powergirl

***2

Contents



I Am Always Backwards 4
Ode To The Antipsychotic 6
The Clock Of (In) decision 7
Root of Recent Behavior 10
CTRC Sutra 11
Loving Past Infinity 13
Systematic Ambiguity 18
The Criminal George W Butch 22
She Can’t See Me 23
Untitled 26
Every Way 30
My Blondie If Only 38








***3

I Am Always Backwards

Catch her eye, have
her smile in return
and keep walking away.
Have the fleeting love
that flies over the
heads of others straining.
Feel the terror of the
wanting what she offers.
It took me nearly
three years of sniffing
what I vowed I would
forsake. The one I wanted
most, in whom I could see
only beautiful babies.
Finally she shook her head
and was gone, having
taught me the gift of
unconditional love.
I never made a single
assumption about what
she thought beyond the
words she spoke to me.
I never cried except to
feel better.
More than twenty years later
she’s a thousand miles away
with six beautiful children.
I am here in Tejas
having had sixty teenage
teacher’s love and each her

***4

medicinal care. As I am older
the young woman’s
perspective seems less and
more valuable to me. To stay
eight years old forever is
not an easy task. They
seem to leave faster these
years. Is the world truly
a better place for young women?
or have I condensed the dharma
into an afternoon?





























***5

Ode To The Antipsychotic

I counted out my medicines
carelessly tonight. Retiring
early I lay in repose, relaxing
my physical person and
my respiration came in easy
regularity to the point of
habitual slumber. Though
my body sleeps I with effort
stop conscious thought by
meditation technique while
I am aware I am not sleeping.
Hearing  city night sounds of
sirens in the distance, patrolling
helicopters and neighbors quiet
voices passing under my window.
These spark thought, at first in
simple spirals that veer into
linear perceptions like parted
friends come back to play. I
see at once the pills in the
evening dish, and missing
from the pack is the alpha
seroquel.
Eyes still closed tight, corporal
form at rest, shall I rise and
repair the error? How much
time is past? This poem titled
and neatly started; will it be
here at some future composition?
The nadir of my manic muse
that poisons expression brings
the world first to me but then
as quickly drives it away by the
relentless thought that banishes

***6

sleep, disrupts breath and leaves
me trapped in a complexity o
variables of thought that may
or may not make sense to myself
but cause others to furl their
brows and move away.
After many antipsychotic scripts
and side effects with each, this
seroquel at last melts my mania
in knocking me out reliably and
imposing long and study slumber.
My doctor told me it brought on
the diabetes my obesity has
kept me on the borderline of for
half a decade, but it seems a
reasonable bargain for a way to
peacefully cope in a way that
while damping my mania does
not strangle my creativity or
restrict my intellect.
In my journey into the tunnel
of diagnosis of perceived
mental illness I have been through
crisis centers and psychiatrists
and state hospitals and jailhouses
and on the streets of big cities.
I’ve seen and met and questioned
listened, carefully listened to each
one who would share her story,
her diagnosis, review his prescription
and her effects direct and side.
I saw their capacity to love and
felt the sorrow from their
existence and their fear of not
knowing and not trusting the
doctors, drugs and even the

***7

diagnosis that strips us of the
perceived sanity that in time
we wonder why it seemed
to matter.
I came through the tunnel a
functional person by the
love and help of family and
friends; but it was mainly up
to my own effort, that as with
each of us. Try to find trust
in your doctors treatment,
they have seen many similar
patient’s diagnosis. Try the
meds, but read all you can
about the affects, and try to
see past initial side effects and
look for improvement. It is
a numbers game, keep after
your doctor to find the right
combination to make your
mind function for you.







***8

The Clock of (In) Decision

My dance this time is all for me.
The only wealth that matters to me
is the minutes that are my own.
To act or not act as the spirit in me bids.
I am a truth teller and sign reader but so what?
I cannot see those female type signs
and scamper to the next one
like a cowardly insane bee
that sniffs and laughs at the
weeping flowers.
And also the more rational types
after simple frequent pollination.
Not even my vision of the parsnip and
turnaround intentions can bring me
to bend on the most of all.

My sad fate is to have everything,
except a rational reappraisal of all
that my life offers and contains.
One step leads to the next leads
to the next and truly I only want
coffee at midnight.
The Ωmega of the broken rules
that keeps me on the earth all my days.
The sundae always comes, so
why do I never eat it? It is always
just another clock in a string pearls,
and the terror of  flight starts with looking
the parsnip in her coffee pot.

***9
Root of Behavior

My studio is a wreck
so my life suffers
adrift from meaningful
creativity that once
lived here with me.

Fern 16 is sprawled
on the futon with
several panels
left in a box piled by
the bookcases by the door.

A dozen comic boxes
are there too, large and
misplaced, just so too
Claudia’s bookcases
blocking me from the
Thoreau-A-Thon project
in the foot locker
beneath the sawhorse
shelving.
Only a woman
can kick my ass
into shape.















**10

CTRC Sutra
in 8 vedas
I was born to be inappropriate
War Is Over
We Can All Go Home


I’ve heard I’m sick
of you often enough
It’s true. But some folks
are truly sick no matter
how I behave.

I came across sweet
as can be, but I am
afraid to stay. My labor
bending down does not
keep we loved after.

I learned what I know
and forever gathering
thought to my lovers
Is the method of
life’s comprehension.

Osama come slowly
we are leaving the cave
to come now to our
families. Let them
Taliban have their own.
***11

Silly rabbit, to shake the
hive with penetrating
questions of brain chemistry
and the subconscious mind.
Tricks are indeed for children.

When I come to the tea
party we wear a pretty
smile on the lips that say,
after hard work, that
my English is not too good.
Read a thousand books,
Love a thousand poems
enjoy as many friends
as may be and never
relent in trying.

When Dorothy Parker comes
pirouetting home in their
combat boots and body amour
save a seat for the girl
with the ringing in her ears.

President Obama deserves praise
Bad Company and Riot contributed


***12

Loving Past Infinity
(Ouch; Stop; It Hurts)
Sparks shoot from my heart as
Hostess TwinkieTM rode up so
erect astride her bad pink scooter
under her pink round hat.
I’m not clear how long since I loved
an image like a confection so
apparently tasty to be with.
Not sure now how long ago I adopted
the two rules, no co-workers,
no waitresses. Any are fair game but
these result in consequences more
unpleasant than any pleasure in their
company or images as a result, and
failure to slide in the knife causes
emotions like insults.

My path of constant sorrow results
in relentless pursuit of the next
thought, the new perspective, the
float of the mind shows me the
way through dimensions by
discerning right perceptions. My
only penetrations being each
next voluptuous unknown revealed
here to my wonderful garden.

Stones make the walls surrounding
my garden, the freedom my Father

***13

and Mother gifted me to stand up
and walk to the library. She read
faithfully to her baby but he was not
grateful nor ever bowed to her intentions.
Instead he set out with a serviceable
vocabulary  and his mind
beclouded by Hollywood illusions.
My path is marked by the sign of
the comic book. As I am born to be
absurdly honest it is fitting
that in loving the way of the
ephemeral unloved medium
that it should lead me to the
path of multiple perspectives.
Today neither creating nor reading,
still I am of them and
have their nature at a glance.

Persons move through my life like
stories I have read over and over
in the comic books, but I still watch
expectantly to know which way
each will turn. For it is sadly true
that comic book plots are few
in number, only as many as
human stories in life.

So I wait to see if the final page
holds the Joker or the Big Red Cheese;
for the fine distinctions
hold everything for me.

***14
After a decade dancing
with future ghosts the
Hostess TwinkieTM  pricked
me to attention and the buzz
of new love interest, the αlpha of
my turnaround was not yet
even a thought, except that
a Hostess TwinkieTM  is only to be
depicted, never consumed; but
when the brick comes with a clause
excluding the knife on page 88,
it is difficult to escape the perception
that unseen, it is implicit.

Am I packing a pallet knife
or a buck knife, or if it is
to be both at last it is to
close a bracket, dot the line
and begin a new propositional equation.
I had dream visions of the totem of
my turnaround, a parsnip.
The remnant of the fire is the one
of the moment of my vision
but up to now she is hardly the
function of the parsnip,
the Ωmega of my transition
without a doubt, but the totem
is only a voluntary estate;
I cannot yet resort to tricks
or coercion.


***15

Constant sorrow comes
of always holding back,
seeing every step ahead
with each interesting and 
attractive new function. I
stepped onto this path so
long ago that I am numbed
to the fruit offered as I pass
the open flowers who weep
as always that our culture
turned the low hanging
fruit to contractual civil liabilities.

The work itself is the everything,
but of course it began as the ruse
she needed to undress willingly.
Like a painting the manipulation of
perspective and light she satisfies
like a cunning trick. I learned
sooner than some that
penetration without intention
of procreation evokes a
transformation like a
ticking clock.
After a string of slippery beloveds
caught by simple tools of manipulation
I used to make her see me as
her own desire. I learned I had to
be straight because it is too hard
to pretend. I took the way of
non-attachment in the handy duce

***16
celibacy and poverty. Traded
occasional ecstasy and frequent
excruciating agony and guilt
about the selfish excluding interest
for sweet, sweet constant sorrow.
So the Hostess TwinkieTM  and
the parsnip do the invisible dance
disconnected from the poet and
only he knows what they are to him;
and thank God for this tiny blessing
for the twisted mind of the
Shaman painter goes in multiple
directions and waves of experimental
intentions. Sometimes their success
is detached from their apparent fortune.


















***17


Systematic Ambiguity
Dedicated to Angelique and Ashley

The universe consists
of objects which occur
having various qualitie
and standing in
various relations.

Some of the objects
which occur in
the universe are
complex.
When an object
is complex, it
consists of
interrelated parts.

Let us consider
a complex object
composed of two parts
a and b standing
to each other in
the relation R.
The complex object
“a-in-the-relation-R-to-b”
may be capable
of being perceived
when perceived,
it is perceived
as one object.

***18

Attention may show
that it is complex;
we then judge
that a and b
stand in the
relation R.

Such a judgment,
being derived from
perception by
mere attention,
may be called a
“judgment of perception.”
This judgment of
perception, considered
as an actual occurrence,
is a relation
of four terms,
namely: a and b
and R and the percipient.

The perception,
on the contrary,
is a relation
of two terms, namely:
“a-in-the-relation-R-to-b.”
and the percipient.

Since an object
of perception
cannot be nothing,
we cannot perceive
“a-in-the-relation-R-to-b,”

***19

unless a is in the
relation R to b.
Hence a judgment
of perception,
according to
the above definition,
must be true.

This does not
mean that, in a
judgment which
appears to us
to be one of
perception, we
are sure of
not being in error,
since we may err
in thinking that
our judgment has
really been derived
merely by analysis
of what was perceived.

But if our
judgment has
been so derived,
it must be true.

In fact
we may define truth,
where such judgments
are concerned, as
consisting in the fact

***20
that there is a
complex corresponding
to the
discursive thought
which is the judgment.

That is,
when we judge
“a has the relation
R to b,” our
judgment is said
to be true when
there is a complex
“a-in-the-relation-R-to-b,”
and is said
to be false when
this is not the case.

This is a
definition of truth
and falsehood
in relation to
judgments of
this kind.

Comic Book Shaman
in loving homage to and bald plagiarism
of Whitehead and Russell, Introduction
Chapter Two, Principia Mathematica, 1911.

***21

The Criminal George W Butch

I don’t have to conquer the world
and a good thing too because the
sun is high in the afternoon heat and
there’s a dern ol’ bunyon on the
bottom of my foot that hurts me every
time I put ‘er down, but that’s nothing
next to the hurt the criminal G W Bush
and his low companions have wrought
upon our nation; bless their empty hearts.

When a puppet controlled by wealthy
men who care only for more, throws his
entire dedication, energy and, as it were,
soul into doing the devil’s work waging
unjust wars and fear mongering for the
benefit and profit of his masters we may
see clearly the legacy of that honest, no-
blow-job receiving President succeeding
President Clinton.

Oh well, fucked again. That is our lot as
free people. No good deed goes unpunished.
This indicated whore will retire to Texas on our
dime and surround himself with purchased
reminders of all the good that came from
his term in office. Still I can’t raise much beyond
distain for the turd because really he is all we
sorry ass Americans deserve unless we may open
our eyes with compassion, and maybe try that.

***22
She Can’t See Me

The day is all
each hour a
promise and a
pleasure to spare.
Weaving as a
spider the threads
of thoughtful
perception into
projects that
whisper through
phases of
completion.

Invisible man
amateur, everything
is for art and
love. Completely
is and completely
is not.

Miles traveled
down the years
more than
enough harsh
advancement
business
dealings and
early retirement
to a life of service and

***23

uncertainty and
the wealth in the
value each
hour lived.

Routines acquired
like drinking coffee
at midnight evolve
one step after the
next. Caffeine at
night kills the
mind drug dopey
morning feeling.

Notes say
midnight coffee
began in November
and no recollection
of the midnight wonder
until nearly the
end of April. She
laughed at my
equation and
came into focus.
Unconditional love
served well enough
but two months of
bald fascination
seems too much;
instead of her
thinking only

***24

more nothing
she thought
something of
invisible me. 

Terror is
making an
impression
after leaving.
Cowardly
poet/painter
of tender heart
bought himself
a jar of
instant coffee.




















.........................................................................................................................................




***25

Untitled
My heart
angered by
the wars to come
when I saw
that the time then
was for compassion.

The cost in
bearing the grief
of feeling impotent
injustice felt and
not inflicted by
the not us that
needed only
weak politicos
and eager generals
to mission accomplish.
So the sons and
daughters of our
friends  and lovers
gave themselves
over to a most
unjust voluntary
military service.
To valiantly
fight and suffer
with people of
countries who had
no connection to
the towers fall
recruitment windfall.

***26

Afghanistan
of legendary
despair. We
laid her open
in weeks and
did all that
could be expected
or required.
accomplished
missions ain’t.
got no ending.

Dirty criminals
Bush and Cheney
had daddy’s fish
to fry and for
only a string
of lies a
dictator perfectly
suited to our
purposes was
hanged amid
disintegration.

Death
and suffering of
sweet daughters
and sons in blazing
heat bitter cold
stinging rashes .
Laughing contractors
profit accomplishing
the mission of the
criminals Cheney
and Bush.


***27
So every day
check our gear
armor and weapons
and set out from
here to somewhere
locked in a box
traveling on
roads the ghosts
were on hours
before. A pile of
trash, an old shoe,
a dead dog
boom.
Missed that time
but no worries
she can lose a limb
most any day
poof in the
wink of an eye.
Mission accomplished.

It seemed so fair
a volunteer
force what is
fair about back
and back?

My unit lover
she scars and
wounds but we
love her the
more for taking
all her pain.

***28
Ring, ring,
ringing ears from
the devices
constantly with us
are legacy lovers
who whisper we
will laugh
ruefully at the
VFW hall with
fat bellies and
bratty grandkids
mission accomplished.




















***29

Every Way

Television shows
movies, books too,
conversations
documentaries
higher education
all examples that
point to the
fragmented
episodic structure
of our cultural
thought and
problem solving
methods that
assure that
important societal
problems can never
find remedy here.
Society’s  problems
constantly recurring
seeming without
solution are mainly
the result of
arbitrary and
artificial attempts to
treat their symptoms
in ways we wish
would work
but never can.
***30
All problems have
root in misperception
of truth. Truth
like life spreads
in all directions
without boundary
border or ending.
Seeing solutions
to our cultural
political, economic
and compassionate
issues  are
clear off in
all directions
across many
dimensions
of perception.

Instead of
looking clearly
and trying to solve
issues rationally
by tracking down
and cutting the
root; instead we
turn to the Father
government,
Father church to
make us whole.
Fix us like
Danny Thomas

***31

in Father Knows
Best. Every problem
short and sweet,
an episode comedic
farce profiting only
the sponsors who
pay for Fathers
continuous campaigns
not to solve problems
but to forever stay
apparently and
arbitrarily
in charge.
Disordered
thoughts of unease
misgivings and
misunderstanding
are fixtures
and forces that
can always be
measured and
perfectly
knowable;
just as
persons never are
or can be.
A life has only
one installment;
the arc from
birth to death.
Any perceptions of

***32

phases or parts or
milestones  are
artificial however
real they are
or are thought
to be.
Time serves us
until we find
that it rules us.
Backward misuse
of our golden
account all but
reduced to nothing
by misplaced
anxiety of
perceived compulsion.
Attached to
the objects
that are more
a liability at
last that merely
medicates our
sorrow and
our discontent.
The path to
see what is;
as distinct from
profitable delusion
of economic  activity
begins with

***33

discernment of
information’s validity.
Turn off the media
that poses as
your own thought.
News-days stretching
infinitely containing
endless hours
to fill with
“reportage”
without meaningful
editorial articulation
is a recipe for disaster
that welcomes us to
the jungle of
government by parrots
reported by lap dogs
and consistent
consumption takes
one ever further
from right perception.
Find the float
within your thoughts
that casts off
the lives and rules
that bind us to
the bidding of
those who we
think of as
leading us
in good faith.

***34


Come to the party
that is going on
right here inside the
tiny massive organ,
the most complex
three pounds of
organic intricacy
known to exist
in the universe;
and is our brain
that our designer
created in each
of us with the
loving anticipation
of your
awakening.

We each have our
own free will but
will you free us
of the bonds
imposed by apathy
and indecision?
Only we each together
have the power
to cure oppression,
but first we must
recognize that we
created it ourselves
while we were
doing other things.

***35
America the prison
cell block for so
many who trust
and attempt to
obey all the rules
and fear all
the bad things
they are told
in talking points
that voting against
will incrementally
reduce over the
course of perhaps, your
children’s lifetime.
Left or right
clear perception
is equally out
of sight.
Our children hope
to save the planet
that is really not
in the least peril.
The truly dangerous
concern is that
they cannot clearly
frame the concern.
Pollute a river?
River don’t care,
but children can’t
swim there, if a

***36

fish can be caught
there it’s poison
to eat.
The plants and animals
and fish and frogs
cannot breed or live
long and so parish
and vanish. If
children cannot make
this distinction of
who has lost and
who must be saved
there is no hope of
learning what men
profited by polluting
our river, and
understanding
salvation begins
at comprehension.

































***37


My Blondie If Only

Moves lightly
with a spring turn
of compact head
to see every detail
important to the
task.
Fearless, relentless
medicine woman
with food and
a little time for those
who needs a
moment’s relief  and
a kind word.

Her hair pinned
up, the short hairs
of her arched neck
disappearing into a
collar of a primary
color knit fabric.

V-shape formed
firm shoulders
to tiny waist. Sweet
no nonsense where
shapely thighs
race to agile
knees that blossom

***38

calves of contrasting
motion of tiny
sensible shoes.
Pastel eye shadows
and tapered cheeks
ascribe a womanly
quality to pixie beauty
accented by a flick of
a tongue in amusement
or exasperation.
Eyes that laugh or
flash lightning one
second apart above
a statuesque
physique of an
athlete earned in
constant service.

Magical
like unaware
ones who are
worth above all
others and see
only ahead.
But never clearly
invisible poet/painters.
                      
***39
.
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.
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.









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