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 Twinkie_TM 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 Twinkie_TM  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 Twinkie_TM  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 Twinkie_TM  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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