this banal vessel?
a carousel of magic?
a recipe of miracles?
an index card-
handwritten scrabble
worn yellowed edges
a tear or two from use
a corner missing
how the uncommon gets misplaced
and indexed
this side of learn’d heaven
such is… life.
sentiment, reality though.
I never seem to have the time
to properly metamorphosize
so will I ever be…
externally
who I am, to be ?
notes… and so I ask you (yes you) what are we meant to be? are we free? (to be?) I’m not so sure sometimes, and others I am a blustered fool spitting in the face of an obvious tornado, what an odd fellow, one of my neighbors has a rooster now, I hear it in the morning, thankfully it is on the next block or my neighbor might not be waking up…
PS: if you have a word reaction to my work, send it in, the best I will tag back onto my post, as a reaction? a question? a continuation ? sure… any of these, so if I invoke a response from your muse… please share…
the consequence of bile, the hoarding of poison, the purpose of same, in actuality I am not painting myself as some viper or venomous snake, or perhaps I am, for the sake of this context, certain things annoy me, let’s say, push my buttons so to speak, but who is in real control of such things, do I lie in wait like an ambush predator ready to strike when given the predicted stimuli, yes, I must admit I do, but why? should I just let the rain swipe off my back like rain on a duck’s ass, instead of being an actual ass? yes, probably, would be better to avoid toxin to store and use, why bother with the poison at all, I guess that is my point, as I caught myself this morning, recoiling at a co-worker’s obvious intent to ruin my mood, but if I respond with kind (not “in kind”) the button of my tolerance gets rather stepped on merely than pushed, as if the throttle wants to go full open tilt, “kill them with kindness” when I just want to kill them, figuratively of course, I am no beast, well, at least not until Friday’s most weeks… the “ignore” does not seem to work either I’m afraid, the lack of action just creeps up my back not so subtlety, like a rolling volcano boulder up into my neck, causing the hairs to stand up and stir and cry “what the heck!” (or more likely more ‘colorful’ language… if I am to be fair), so easy in moments that pass to judge and say what would do, much less of an impress to put on those shiny goggles of hindsight (as I am now), I wish there was a trick, a magic one would suffice, where as I could slow down time and think things out, but that is not going to happen (no matter how much I study the arcane), the answer (I propose) is preparation, scenario recognition, they say life is too short, for a great many things, probably for toxin as well, but the gulch of what we know and what we do varies in the seasons…
epilogue: I caught myself this morning, being mean for no sheer reason, although I know I was being prodded, I need to work on myself, does it matter in the long run? probably not, but it matters to me, there is no reason to be terse just to be a jerk, or to live up to my reputation of same, even if I have to bite my lip, I should, there is no use spreading disdain in this world, our lives are too short, it is hard to remember that in the moment though as we play our roles, but I guess my acknowledgement shows some growth, not a trophy though, not a finish line, I must remember… to be kind. because, why not?
is sunshine a state of mind? a phase? a path? I wonder… can I sustain as a beaming light, or will I fade, from the very nature of my humanity, which supports both and the same, to be a beacon, a guide, while being a scion on my own ride, so easily derailed, even before I have begun to embark, at times, so easy to distract, to deride, to find reasons for treason against a good tide, as to what the sculptor knows, vastly a different job from actual chisel in hand, and I know, you know, we all know these truths, they are not static, or some arcane formula that needs to be derived or teased out from numbers, no, they are naked bare, out for all to comply, if they care, or to be ignored, or tossed casually on the floor, that is the temptation, what makes the truth so grave, easy to identify, easy to shove aside, ’tis not a plow or a yoke, perhaps that feel when the field is against the grain and flow of humanity about, perhaps, but handed gilded gifts never callous hands do make, some prefer the hand out, I suppose, am I different? depends on the day, the question, all that I wrap myself around in tizzy for, but at the core, the threads of truth remain, like the light of each coming day, for night is a temporary thing, shadows are a cause not a spring – should I enlighten? and let sunshine become, a state of mind.
note… this is always my dilemma, I want to be a pure beam of light, so why can’t I be, I mean, I can, but I don’t but should… but to what end? such is the war in my heart and mind, what to do with my time, if it matters, or not, or should it? all the damn questions… and yeah, I am going to start marking some of my posts (s.o.c) for stream of consciousness, so if you like those posts more (or less) you can avoid or consume them at your behest…
voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…
voices disappear
voices go out
like lights-
once guided, gilded
gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore
gone, swallowed by the surf of years
and perhaps not all are lights
but some are
we come to trust
to guide
lessons learned
beards grow long, and grey
salt in the air
whether calm or fray
a beam we rely on
even when we know the way, so well
a voice gone
taken back into the sea
a light out
never replaced to be
notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.
waiting room,
there is a window
(always a window)
stopping to admire the view
ever-changing molecules
ever-flowing change
even on this calm day
or nights, the light lets pass
a signal to our brain
the waiting room
with the window
and once more
no, once only
we find
a door
(the exit … or?)
notes… written at the car dealership (I know, how romantic)… but isn’t this all a waiting room? at times… we are in our little existence, our building, our world, looking out, from a window or the sky-light that caps our ceiling on earth, something is out there beyond, and I don’t just mean the ancient alien guy, there is a door we all go through, what’s on the other side? I wish I knew… I sort of hang my hat on the ole “matter is not created or destroyed” but what if my consciousness is set aside? what then? I admit, it terrifies me, even if I won’t be aware, I will just be… “gone”.. but I did exist so… at some point in time, I was there… but that does not quell the rumors ruminating in my fear…
the desire to
lock myself in my own room
spin a yarn for a time or two
as the outer light does fade
spinning round the barrier
a protector, a soft wall
but yet a border just the same
so I might pause
and rest
ahhhh, respite
no, waking sleep
ability, to transform
and emerge
in time
-to fly (forward).
t-hr..e-a-d..b-ar…e: I might imagine the fright, and the hindsight, upon looking back, at gomora, my sins were cast against only myself and her, but targets do not matter, had I struggled this long, so long, to not look back, perhaps, I would have spared miles upon my back and feet, only to come to this precipice gazing point, that all I cared for is back there, regardless of the infestation and decay of years, and here I wind up wandered, squandered- threadbare, so, do I dare?
left alone
in the desert
at night
with no stars
no moon to guide
only thoughts
those memories
no oasis
left to lie
quite awake
alone-
for all of night
left alone
in the forest
at night
not even an owl
but a full moon
above reach
above the trees
all surround
pikes like walls
staked to the ground
shadows bend and tuck the bars
around
not a sound
I curl in
forever night
I remember
a campfire
tended to
the warmth
rising like a spire
a canopy
a bio-dome
down to embers
now gone
flickers linger
and succumb
chasing into the sky
like stars
long gone-
cocoon of death transforms
as the one
absorbed
by the universe
once more
to sleep in other
beings
dreams
dispersed from our-self-forming seed
absorbed into the atoms of others-
eternity?
notes… a musing in my status, even if surrounded we all die alone, we are not born alone, we are guided into this life, brought along with a mother’s hand in the womb, travel a path to our own existence, and then ? who knows… but it is there, always there, most of us live as if this will go on, but even the best and worst of us are gone, can this all be for naught? a cosmic tease? or is their more? and the only way to know… is down that path we all must go… does it pay to waist my mental wealth on these questions ? probably not… but for the life of me (pun intended) I can not ignore them… we die alone but I do not wish to die alone, is there a difference?
and as a reminder or a tip to newbies to my blog… these works are off the cuff, I wrote this within minutes, all of it, no torture of words, no wringing my ends, just my thoughts spitfire onto the page, that is what is what the muse so chooses me to do, so is this literary perfection ? no… or even my best expression ? perhaps not… but so it is, the cauldron that has consumed me since birth, even this little swirl of words… there are people out there who will not get it, and some who do, I send good will to all of you as we are here stewarding this world at this same time… for a short time… our time, we are together, as different or as same as we are… because.. we ARE….
crows on the rooftop there-
what are they trying to tell me?
(light signals switch, black eyes twitch- looking)
they are not permanent residents
at least not in this noisy cloister murder contingent;
occupying whole oak tree and surround
what is so special about this house (now)
what draws them so here and near
why do they understand better than I
they possess any land, under, the flown sky
notes… sometimes, OK, often I look out the window… and wonder, what draws a crowd, what is the call, what am I missing? something? or nothing more than a dinner bell? or deeper?
imagination is on the wind
sometimes drying on the vine
or a snake through a valley slides out into a plain
flat-up-face-frolic lounging
in the mist of sudden rain
taken to steering flocks, of wings
teasing out sculptures from moisture forms
at times brash dervish made of hell-bind-self
to the quiet mind, a rested leaf
underneath, a blooming tree
gossamer seeds, floating about
like armadas of tiny balloons aloft
who knows where they might plant
and sprout out a thought, from the land
– or not!
a muse walks into a bar… and how would you know? maybe the peanuts make a face, or bubbles begin to race, condensation sighs, or a barstool sings as it rides across the floor, their is music in even the most mundane, after all…
Shades of My Garden 