drift

drift

an anchor-
to keep you safe,
to moor you to one place
safety, harbor,
but from the harshest of waves
but then, you spy-
out on the horizon-
and wonder.

metaphor… I might build a home with such bricks one day, as I stack them and lay them out… perhaps to the moon, but what do I know, I am just some dude… trying to figure it all out, and see things that spark, thoughts… and the muse instructs me to write them down, so I do, for myself, and any of those on the same wavelength…
call and response {c … r}

call and response {c … r}

the illusory green
surely emerald eyes betwixt
a mask on the frame
dully noted-
winter might shame out the truth
rusted tracks with rusted roots-
and train cars, containers stacked like bricks
from high up
radio buttons of oil stored
like somber binary code
cold and alone
but the illusory green
for this spring
and some months
covers up
the urban rot.

can a mask truly mask what is seen? do we not perceive at some level what is beneath a covering? so is a mask – if we choose to believe… or not?

observation glimpse when driving home

observation glimpse when driving home

driving home, from work,
the familiar route,
corner of, caught my eye
there, on some banal blank
white plastic fence-
the last east racing lines
of the sun’s late bent light
of this over-heated summer day
so I reached out my hand
as if to grab
the last remnant of the dawn
in my palm
to hold on-

notes… true to form I wrote this in my head while literally driving down magnolia ct like I have a thousand times… and the fence, the light, just caught my eye, the music was right… and so the lines… well, they write themselves…
task and trend…

task and trend…

is there more joy in a winning lotto ticket, a bingo call, or the instantaneous thrill –
or building that wall, brick by brick, no, I do not like that aesthetic, I prefer the old stone walls I see in various states upon these old roads and places here in the north east where I cut my teeth hiking as a kid, I might imagine there is the same in many towns, in other countries, other pastures, other chains of hills, historical lines, or just the outline of a property some time ago, I imagine that first day, looking out at seemingly impossible, wishing, that with the snap of a finger’s snap could all be done, knowing this is not the case, knowing, that some days the will not be there or the sun will bear down and melt you into your shirt, dirt, dirt invading every nook, and each little cut from a shrub, or a little sharp rock, a badger-ous root or two, stacking stones, in a line, in a groove, knowing this might outlast, even you, just the same, a quarter done, you realize that the last bit is not so straight, so you must tumble down, strip down to start once more, but not from total scratch, for now you have more experience to avoid that trap, hopefully, there is a timeline fumbling about in your head, a wondering if you are up to the task, you could just buy some prefab substitute, and most would be none the wiser, but not you, a puzzle of pieces that never quite fit, but only have to fit to sit, in the kingdom of gravity that will rule them hence, this igneous fence that will never quite keep out a soul, or a fox, or who knows, more symbol than function, more monument than form, perhaps the megalithic past is in your bones, where this all began, the plight of task, but unlike the ox under yoke, we can appreciate the tilling and rise, the harvest of effort, to behold.
and then one day the final corner stretch, I think I can now sit and marvel what time has wrought and through time we travel, but yet, might I bother you for that winning ticket, that instant… just to compare to this, for comparison’s sake…

here is the odd thing… I was posting about this post on Facebook (sort of)… and wrote some more stream… is this stream of consciousness produced by a stream? so here is the FB post which is really a reaction to the Shawshank clip I linked above:

there is something about places like these, at least to me, I have seen long lines of stones like this.. and wondered, was this a house, a fence, a fort, or? mostly in the catskills when I was a kid, but also around various parts on the outskirts of towns, I always wanted to build my own, not some neat landscape trope we see often, a rock by rock wall, something seems so primitive, but yet so human, an the endeavor itself, this wall is not blocking anything, an ant, a snake, a fox.. no… no intruder is rerouted by this simple mount, a call back to our megalithic selves, perhaps… and maybe that is the appeal, the roots, the dirt in your nails, the sun beaming down as the rocks cover ground, the delight in a lemonade in the late afternoon, after you have laid out a monument, of sorts, not for show, not for sport, for time, and maybe to inspire a generation that forgot…

so there you go… a double post, sort of, it is what it is… and on a totally different note (if you read this far) I also do movie/TV reviews.. I just finished Asteroid City, did not post about it yet… let’s just say I love the experience of the movie but the emotional aspect is lacking compared to other of his works… but anyway, that post/review will come…

fragmentation…

fragmentation…

initially- (the broken)
like shards of glass
but time passes
as the hands raise- and fall
shadows move- across dials
shapely from tall- to none
never ending-
(when everything has an end)
at some point-
the pieces no longer fit
nor form a single picture
no matter of effort
the edges are gone
but not the interior vision;
I wish this were more like armor
but even armor bears holes- in time
with battle, or even with idle;
I wish this were more like a reel
frame upon frame in perfect sequence
but even film diminishes in the crucible of years;
then, when these spaces are full
and a purging spring does come upon-
we filter and muster that which must move on;
for a vessel- by definition
is not infinite
not in diameter, nor circumference
there is no infinity ingrained in our soul
the simple truth of being
eventually all that we kept
breaks down unto molecules
lighter than even, breath-

my infrastructure is damaged… or is it? the years have eroded me, of course they have, every one who is lucky enough to live to certain ages experiences the curb… no matter how our mind feels piloting this machine, the machine breaks down, without fail, no matter the care- or the neglect, the time comes, in whatever form, in whatever disease or malady… I try to just always have a a good countenance.. why? because why not? it may not matter but why not smile at the abyss… because right now we are alive, that is why… we are alive right now, we can cherish that, if anything, we are alive… don’t forget, even in despair there is life, in decay there is life, in every corner of the earth… is life.
blue womb

blue womb

the soothing blue-
sometimes, the prescription
is in plain view-
a stark blue sky-
evenly speckled, by clouds of white
even in doubt, with spots of grey
the sweeping tide-
of blue,
and those primal memories alight-
of the beach
the ocean
the tide,
feet dangle from a dock
toes tip circles
into the crystal blue
undulations under foot
magical permutations
as light bends and folds
amongst the blues
between the pose
of toes
dangling
in the night water
still lit-
by moonlight,
fading rays
racing out
to the horizon closing
peaks of blue crests rising falling
the soothing blue-
how I can reminisce
and be transported -to you.

notes… I was just thinking about the last time I was in the Keys… specifically Islamorada, at this little hotel, maybe 12 rooms, right on the water, as it turned out there was only one family staying at the same place… and they were from Jersey (what are the odds)… the place had a private dock, it did not yard far into the water, maybe 50 feet out, they had these lights that cast just enough light, because when the moon is out you can see for miles, I sat at the end of the dock, my feet dangling in the water… I can’t think of a more perfect moment, it was a dream, the water is an aqua like you can barely describe, how can water be so blue and so clear? but it was, the sheer blue vastness married with the beauty in the details… every detail… the shadows of the palms were like fingers across the dock, slowly, gently swaying in the tropical breeze… maybe I need that scene again… all these years later…

retrograde…

retrograde…

ah my sweet lion -!
let these be for when the stars align
might I be- in retrograde?
or witness of the same-
on a ship that sails-
school taught- navigation fails
might I tie myself in nautical nots-
lost out upon my own plot – plodding-
bobbing up and down
the tides of the ground, jester
plays tricks on me
my mind
moving backwards this seems
an elliptical illusion
as all things are as they begin
.

aesthetics and the battle for humanity…

aesthetics and the battle for humanity…

I wonder if there is an erosion of ourselves by the environment of our daily cocoon, I was thinking about this on my normal drive to work today, outside of the road rage from drivers with no clue, or perpetual construction that seems to never get done (or make any logical sense), I mean from a sheer aesthetic value point of view. Sure, the difference between summer and winter is stark from naked trees to glorious greens- but beyond that, the drab concrete slabs – the dividers between the highways, the utilitarian notion of all the infrastructure rather than even a modicum of utopian flair, does this drab physical demeanor wear on you? on your psyche? Does ugliness beget ugliness, does beauty beget beauty in thought? driving up these unnatural asphalt peaks and ways, a menacing cloud seems like a clawed hand grasping out over the visage of the NYC skyline, sometimes there is an orange glow like some post apocalyptic scene, just the look makes my lungs cringe, like the recent invasion of smoke from the northern canadian fires, sure, there are days when the blue sky beams and the sun makes you forget about the concrete mess you are closest too… but mostly, and on many days, the drab is the norm, an uninspired mass of tar, grey, rust, chipped edifices that crack from the roiling of the seasons and pounding of the traffic – both cars and trucks, the never ending pounding, the gravitational stress, does that permutate the whole of these inanimate objects and reflect back into our collective? I think it certainly is part of the ingredients that bake our daily cake… but what to do? I suppose now, there is not much, try to enjoy some music or something else to tacitly evade the dull drabness of the thing, maybe one day, our car windows will be a bit of virtual reality… transforming our visual into a veritable wonka land of wonder, or at the very least something more pleasing to the eye – and the mind.

the sounds.

the sounds.

obvious, I suppose, but somehow we just live with them in the background, white noise since our birth and before, maybe we even ignore them at times, the sounds, the natural sounds of nature around us, a reminder, because at the end we are as helpless to the end of sound, I was walking my trash bin out to the curb, a romance I have to engage in a few times a week, which is a luxury compared to some parts of the world, and certainly paid for through my local taxes at 13K a year or more, things are relative and all, but I heard the sound of the rain on my car hood, such a unique sound, the pound of the drops like ball bearings on a tin roof, such a sound, you can close your eyes and your imagination conjures one thousand images to match the sound, I want to run my hand across the surface to feel the sound on my hand, I want to pause, and stand there, maybe I am, frozen in time as I try and absorb the experience, like a photograph still, a capture, or something as cool slo-mo like the matrix but of course I am not dressed as chic, but I think you get the exposition, so I walk inside, the rain quite drumming harder now, and so my lobes shift to suit the environment shift, the focus is now the sound on the windows, the pelting, quite different than the pounding on metal sound, more like a gentle or not so, tapping, a gentle rapping at my window to the world, as the drops merge and shape out like ovals until they are just miniature mock-ups of streams and rivers running down the glass, gathering more followers as summer storm intensity dictates, but the sound, the quiet barrage, rising and falling with intensity, waves on wind, so I suppose this theme, this sound, is echoed in the global tides, and in some ways us all, an innate beat to the planet herself, a rise and fall, sun to set, life to death, every day… this song… these sounds, the heart beat of the universe, the true pure-pious pied piper.

Notes… I have been experimenting with various things to listen to for relaxation/sleep. Once you get going there is so much out there… I find the Schuman Resonance fascinating as it is the literal sound of the earth, the heartbeat, well, at least that is what I read on the internet… so it must be true ! Something to think about… the sounds.. the music.. that is just inherit in the natural world…

WIKI on Schuman Resonance… listen to the earth, or at least try.

ghosts of the field.

ghosts of the field.

the ghosts on the range- (wander)
mists- on the edge of our perception
remnants of a traumatic pause,
left to dwell-
half a foot in this world-
and see the jubilant sparks
the smoke explosions in the air
the wonder of blossoms of colored fire
blaring noise might awake-
the ghosts on the range,
lest we forget their mortal lock
and ours-
so removed from the grim fate (for now)
to set ablaze trinkets
in celebration of their deeds
or for which the cause they bled
do we honor the dead
with these
I ask- (wonder)
the ghosts on the range,
trapped forever in that repeating reel
a short film frame flash bang shot
wandering for all time
watching nations rise and fall
in the honor of this all-
the explosions expositions up in the air
might re-of-mind
the brutal horrors of those who fell
or their loved ones who missed them well (after)
I wonder what they might think
if they were more than apparitions?
glimpses of the ones that were (dusty mirrors)-
the spectacle of raining sparks
to mark, the time and honor for which they fought, and gone,
I wonder- (and so they wander on)
the ghosts- on the range.

I must also repeat for anyone new (waving at you, wave back, or not, be rude…) I work off the cuff, I carve the thing and throw it into the world… this is my hobby, my art, a thing I do because the world has instilled it in my DNA, or some muse has their way with me for as long as I can recall, so I decided to just share what I do, naturally, I have a very specific voice, maybe insular, because I write for me… and have been for years, but that does not exclude or preclude the thought of others, any comments, thoughts or questions are cool by me… even if you think I suck, that’s fine, really, I have been doing this long enough where I am not worried about response, if I get it…. awesome, if not, that’s cool too, we are all so many things of so many things that maybe my sparks only light fires in certain parts… and that is cool.. be it one pair of eyes or nine… I thank any and all of you for your time if your stopped by.